


An Outertale Christmas Special

by Youwillneverseeme



Series: Outertale [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Aliens, Animals, Christmas Special, Comedy, Crime Fighting, Drama, Family, Female Antagonist, Gen, Gender-Neutral Frisk (Undertale), Humans, Kung Fu, Magic, Martial Arts, Monsters, Mute Frisk (Undertale), Mystery, Presents, SAVED Asriel Dreemurr, Santa's Elves, Santa's Workshop, Sequel, Snow, Superheroes, Tinsel, Toys, Vigilantism, saving christmas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youwillneverseeme/pseuds/Youwillneverseeme
Summary: T’was the days before Christmas; all across the landsAll the people were roaming, including SansFull of cheer and joy that drives many bonkersChristmas is a time for all: humans and monstersFrisk and their family; their first Christmas togetherAnd they’ll make it the best, whatever the weatherThey’ll pull out the stops; tinsel, trinkets and confettiTurkey, chocolates, pudding, and Papyrus’s spaghettiWith festivities a plenty and the clanging of the bellsAll souls are jolly, except Asriel’sHis soul has been rekindled, yet a fear still persistsWhat if his name disgraces all the naughty lists?An opportunity arises to help quell his bluesSanta Claus himself, but bearing bad newsA villainess is afoot, bearing an evil scheme:To have Christmas all to herself, that is her dreamNow Christmas must be saved from utter terminationAnd our heroes may need more than sheer determinationAnd despite, all else, Asriel’s eternal attaintHe may, very well, become Santa’s own saintSo embark with us all on the journey of a lifetimeAnd don’t expect it all to rhyme





	1. You Better Not Shout

Christmas Eve. Or rather, the dying minutes before Christmas Eve.

The night marked the twenty third day of the twelfth month; the big day was only two days away. The twenty third of December, rapidly approaching the twenty fourth – Christmas Eve.

How many other holidays had an 'eve' mark the day beforehand? There is Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve, but you don't say Easter Eve or Thanksgiving Eve or Halloween Eve or Happy Eve Birthday, and Boxing Day Eve already had a name.

But the writer digresses.

We begin this tale on a cold night, in the final minutes of the twenty third day of the twelfth month. The stars in the sky are obscured behind a dense covering. They shone nonetheless, hoping that maybe, just maybe, their millennia old light will pierce through an opening and make their existence present to a person moving quick to escape the cold, pulling their gloves tight and their coat tighter. A soft falling of snow purified the world in a clean, pristine white wherever it landed; on ground, on roof, on the barren branches of trees. Somewhere, somehow, a few chords from a famous Christmas jingle will play from a passing car or from a sensor activated Santa Claus left by the window.

With Christmas, the imagery of crackling fires to the scent of chestnuts, stockings lining the mantle and presents crammed under the tree are conjured. However, we set the scene outside a mall; it could be your mall, my mall, or any other mall, with a shop for every purpose, as well as those therapeutic tanks full of fish. A place one could get lost in for hours.

At this time of year, the outside was packed with cars while the inside suffocated in a cascade of bodies; an endless swarm of effigies crammed in like sardines, searching for the best deals or for anything not tied to the ground. However, at that hour, there is nary a soul in sight.

A pair of blue eyes inspected the structure's exterior, soaking in its size from across the empty parking lot. It stood clear in the halogen lights, a festive banner of red glittery bells and ribbons above the main entrance, and yet the figure saw something else. Something forgotten. Something so spellbinding that it dulled them to the cold, to the snow, to the murmur of engines.

The figure glanced over to the right as three white trucks passed on the main road. In a single file formation, they trundled down the slick road before taking a left, one after the other.

A long, long time this person had waited. With a pop of the clutch, it was show time.

* * *

A lone security guard, with his belly flopping over his belt, patrolled the halls, shining the way with his trusty flashlight. Many a nightshift he had spent in that mall and yet its eeriness never truly faded, especially during the festive season. The decorations, meant for the daylight, did not help either as they took on an ugly shape of their own when drowned in darkness. Giant snowflakes, baubles and bells dangling from the skylights became giant spiders which were banished by the light's beam. The tinsel wrapped around the pillars resembled venomous serpents ready to snap out and ensnare anyone dumb enough to draw close. And let's not talk about the fifty foot reindeer statue and Christmas tree between the inert escalators in the main plaza; both having always appeared between shifts as if they just come out of thin air. It remained a mystery as to how they were able to go up so quickly, or where they were kept for that matter. It wasn't like they could just force the giant reindeer back into its box, reseal it with masking tape and shove it up in the attic until next year.

The guard examined each grated gate and tested each lock as he passed. Tis the season to be jolly, but crime was always in season. His sweep of the area revealed nothing unusual. No broken windows or forced open shutters or mannequins left in humiliating positions. All was quiet and well.

He ducked down a well-lit service hall and followed it to the security room where his work colleague for the night, Hoffman, was sat well back in an adjustable chair, feet up on the desk, sipping coffee and helping himself to another donut from a box packed with the doughy treats – all topped with icing and sprinkles. Twenty screens to his right surveyed the mall from twenty different areas, and one screen – on _The_ _Late-Late-Late-Late Show with Mettaton and Friends and Burgerpants_ – surveyed the killer robot from twenty different angles.

"Not a creature was stirring," the guard entering said to Hoffman as he slumped down in a vacant chair. "Not even a mouse." He could tell his colleague had not even glanced at the video feeds since he had been away, being more drawn to the fabulous endeavours of that fabulous robot.

Hoffman bit into the glazed dessert. "The only time when nothing is," he mumbled his reply, the piece of donut being reduced to mush between his teeth. He washed it down with a mouthful of boiling brew.

The first guard – let's call him Jarvis – grinned. "Glad I'm here now and not then. I feel sorry for those chumps who gotta stand watch tomorrow, when this place becomes a war zone."

Hoffman worked up the effort to pull away from the screen, at least for more than a second. "You got any last minute shopping to make?"

Jarvis shook his head while helping himself to the nicest looking donut from the box, although he surmised that there existed a nicer one that his partner had gobbled up long ago. "Finished my Christmas shopping well early, three weeks ago."

"Three weeks? That's still pretty last-minute. I finished mine three months back."

To this, Jarvis let out a chuckle. "That iPad'll—" he took a bite of dough and icing "—be two versions out of style by now," he finished, getting crumbs on his shirt. Eating while talking was one of the many bad habits these two shared. Like two peas in a pod, they were. Still revelling in his wit, nodding with delight, he decided to swing around to the row of grainy, monochrome screens. Altogether, they casted a light greater than that of Mettaton's flashy display. All was still and lifeless in the black and white night vision as he scanned them from left to right, then right to left.

Before Jarvis could take a second bite, he stopped.

"Wait a…" He rose from his chair. "Did you see that?"

"Yeah," Hoffman said. "Who'd have thought a robot could be that flexible?"

"I meant the cameras. Did you see that?"

Hoffman turned toward the two rows of monochrome screens. "See what?"

After taking steps up to the monitor, Jarvis pointed at a third screen from the end of the bottom row, at the grainy image of a pillar caught in what the night vision revealed from camera eighteen. "I saw something right there."

His partner focus of the spot, seeing nothing, seeing the image partly sway.

"There it is again." Jarvis pointed to another monitor. "Did you see that?" Hoffman turned a split-second later to camera five, which was aimed down an empty row of shutters.

"How much coffee you had?" Hoffman asked, squinting.

Jarvis unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and thumbed the button. "Dan, you seeing anything on the cameras?" he relayed to the second security watch team on the other end of the mall. His own voice, delayed by half a second, came out of the second device attached to Hoffman's belt. He waited for a response. Ten full seconds passed. "Dan, do you read me?" Another ten seconds. "Dan?"

Sweat formed under his hat. Something was wrong, and this was more than just a raccoon scratching around the lingerie department.

"I'm going back out there," Jarvis said as he pushed the door open. "Got a bad feeling. Keep close eye on the cameras."

Heaving a tired groan at the thought of actually having to do his job, Hoffman shuffled upright and rolled his chair before the monitors. His front was caught in the sleepy blue glow before his colleague took flight down the hall.

He took a left, then a third right, having walked that maze of white-painted cinderblock too many times. The door closest to camera five neared. A featureless, thick barrier, with the words 'staff only' visible not from his side. Not a single speck of light peeked out from under or over it. Officer Jarvis slowed from a jog to a walk, then from a walk to a crawl as he neared, stopping just before it. Placing his ear against the door and listening carefully picked up only the silence.

Half of his senses told him he was seeing things, and the other half was on high alert. One hand held his flashlight while the other reached for the handle. His heart raced, worried not by what he might face, but who he would be leaving behind if the worst came to pass.

He pulled down on the handle until a brief click disengaged the lock, then nudged it open, streaming light across the tile flooring. He poked his head out, aimed the flashlight down the hall and… _Wham!_

* * *

The door to the security room creaked open.

"No luck? Figured as much," Hoffman said, bleary eyes refused to budge from the monitors; them having put him under their spell. The glow, the way the images seemed to flutter, they made his eyelids sag. "Do you want another coffee?" he asked. "We got some nice beans straight from Columbia tonight. That stuff—"

He had no time to relish in that thought before a solid force impacted on his skull, turning his remaining thoughts into darkness. Hoffman slumped forward, smacking his face on the desk; his hat bounced off and rolled to the floor.

Towing above, holding a blackjack, was a large, burly man with a long thick coat, gloves, and a balaclava. He smirked and chuckled, all of this being too easy. He gestured toward those behind him to enter; one skinny guy went straight up to the monitor controls while two other men carried the unconscious Jarvis in and sat him down in the other chair. With a pocket full of nothing but zip ties, the guards had their wrists strapped to the armrests, then their ankles tied together. If anything, it would serve to slow them down if they awoke too early. The goons even took the liberty of relieving the knocked out guards of their walkie-talkies and keys.

The massive man who was obviously the head honcho gave the hacker an impatient look. "We don't have all night," he said in a gruff voice that perfectly matched his appearance. One could only tremble at what hid behind that woollen mask.

"Just a sec…" With a few buttons presses, the skinny guy leaned away from the keyboard and clapped once. "There. I've rigged the recording to loop the last ten minutes. By the time they figure it out, we'll be long gone."

The head honcho pulled out his own handheld device and almost broke the transmission button on his thumb. "Cat, the cameras've been dealt with. Is everything clear on your end?"

Cat was a codename, clearly. He wasn't fond on it, it sounded like something the monsters would use, but he sucked it up and rolled with it. Either that or they do something else more clichéd, like name themselves after billiard balls or letters of the Greek alphabet. A bunch of bank robbers did the same thing some months back and look how well that ended for them; they got busted by the Shadowy Saviour.

Two seconds later, he got a response by the one called Cat: "The guards here won't trouble us tonight, Mouse, and all the alarms have been disabled."

Yep, he was on Team Mouse. That made him leader of the mice: Honcho Mouse. Not the greatest name, but it would do for tonight.

"Then let's getting cracking, boys." After Honcho Mouse said that, he turned to the twenty camera feeds. Even though he couldn't see it, he imagined those empty passages filling up the rest of his buddies as they straddled the floors, scaled the idle escalators and went to work forcing open shutters like Christmas presents, smashing displays, and tagging the walls. A nearby digital clock read 23:59, then switched to all zeroes; Christmas had come exactly one day early.

"Oh, sweet, Mettaton," one of the guys, fixated on the television screen, said. "I love this guy."

"You can watch him in prison if you want," said the leader. "Now hurry up. Let's get this done and go before more cops show up." The four filtered out of the security room, Honcho Mouse leading with the hacker on his tail. The guardd were left to sleep off their dazes and deal with the inevitable headaches the next morning would bring. As the two men who dragged in the knocked out guard stepped out, they came face-to-face with him. "You two, check these inner rooms and make sure nobody else is around to cause trouble. We ain't gonna stay for longer than half an hour tops. You ain't at the trucks by that point, you get left behind."

The pair from Team Mouse nodded and went to it, moaning all the way. The rest of their buddies had the best job, pilfering through all those luxuries while they padded those rooms used by the staff, full of sweaty clothes, stinky shoes, sugary pick-me-ups and empty cans of energy drink. They would be lucky if they found an actual mouse while snooping around back there.

Honcho Mouse and scrawny hacker retraced their steps back to the shopping complex, missing one turn before doubling back. Kicking the door ajar revealed the rest of the team already loading up bags and armfuls of shinnies from the jewellery stores, the latest phones and laptops from the electronics stores, designer shoes and expensive labels from the clothing stores, remote control drones and fitness watches from the gadgets store, video game consoles and DVDs, heaps of bills from the ATMs, anything and everything of value.

All these wonderful treats to take and nobody watching them. Paradise.

* * *

Little did the gang of thieves know, however, was that they were indeed being watched. From the skylights, a portly figure observed the people below like they were ants picking and gathering anything they could carry, forming little highways back and forth between the shops and their getaway vehicles, and causing general chaos.

"What am I looking at here, Albert?"

The intercom in his ear crackled to life: "Accessing surveillance systems now." Albert had a charming accent that not even the radio static or his own fingers against keys could tarnish. "Appears they were smart enough to loop the recording, but not enough to stop me from tapping in. I'm counting twenty men in total."

A flush sounded, followed by pouring water, the gushing of hot air, and finally a single goon emerged from the restroom.

"Make that twenty one, sir."

"Twenty one?" the man repeated. He scratched his beard before pulling up on his belt. "And here I thought this was going to be a challenge."


	2. Coming to Town

So far for the unlucky pair, the sweep of the back rooms was going about as well as expected. The rest got to browse the deserted aisles where the laptops slumbered and the clothes reached out to potential buyers; they got those lifeless walls of grey brick and painted white.

The stink of cheap deodorant remained in the locker rooms. Every locked cabinet was (for want of a better word) locked. Maybe a few dropped pennies in the crevices were there for the taking, had they desired. A crowbar strapped to one of the goons' belts brushed against the fibres of his pants. It was like a lottery, except the prizes were uniforms, papers, knick knacks and instant noodles. Pass.

Every tenth hollow step provided them with a noticeboard covered with messages and posters of events such as parties and after work extravaganzas – most out-of-date by now. A stale smell followed them wherever they trailed.

A storage room blinked to life upon tugging a string link. Rows upon rows of cleaning products. The air itself smelled sterilised from the overabundance of anti-bacteria formula.

A staff room for one of the store held the basics: a cheap table grotty with stains the last person refused to clean up, six chairs, a fridge, a bin in need of emptying, a vending machine, a coffee vending machine and a person in a scarlet cloak hunched down before it.

The two goons froze, refraining from jumping from their skins at the sight of the stranger. And they didn't come any stranger than that.

The figure looked up from a single tile they were staring intently at and faced the men of Team Mouse, coming just a couple inches short of six-foot and had the slim, supple frame of a woman beneath a long, flowing cloak that ran all the way down to her ankles and over a black turtleneck sweater, black gloves, black cargo pants and black combat boots. Her face was hidden under a hood and behind a featureless white mask that had two black slots for the eyes. There appeared to be small objects attached to her belt; a tube, a fancy gizmo, something neither of them could identify; her left hand remained hidden as if reaching for one such gadget prior to them entering. The three stood and stared as each second seemed to elongate into an hour, none of them saying a word as they remained by the door and her before the half-empty vending machine.

"Hello," one of the goons got out.

The masked, cloaked woman remained speechless.

The question ran through the minds of the two crooks: what kind of display was this woman dressed for? She did not look suited for a nativity play or as one of Santa's many helpers or even as a candy machine technician; her visage made her more fitting as a villainous foil to Batman or Captain America or any hero of the 2D world. This mysterious person moved so little that she might've been one of those puppets that lined the clothes aisles.

The leading man took the first step. As he moved, the figure did not follow him, but kept on staring straight ahead as if petrified. He slipped from his belt the crowbar. The ends were shiny from much usage and the bend bared the scuffs from many heads.

He was a few steps away now, yet she remained as still as a statue. He could hear breath from behind that mask. The crowbar tripled in weight. "Just… hold…" He winded back his bar-bearing arm. "Still…"

At the second he swung, the woman caught his wrist and jabbed her thumb into soft flesh, shooting tremendous pain up to his shoulder blade. The goon yelped, thoughts switching off as he snapped up like a spring and released the tool, which clanged against the ground.

The second guy hesitated. His legs, made wary to the sound of sirens, told him to cut, run, and warn the others; his fists, hardened from a few scraps in his time, wanted to get in there. The fists won out. He charged. One stride away, the woman brought his friend's arm across, punching him in the face with his comrade's own twitching hand. She brought it back across the cheek of the guy who owned it, then kicked him in the side between his ribs, knocking him down in an awkward fumble.

The second, dazed, threw a blind punch. As if made of air, his target swerved and watched his fist as if she could see it at a million frames a second. He ended up hitting the vending machine, sending cracks shooting up the glass and pain shooting up his arm. In that split-second of pain, he noticed a bit more of what hung around her belt. Too late, he glimpsed a handle like that found on a gun before the edge of her hand chopped into his throat. Unable to breathe, he stumbled back and crashed against a couple of chairs, drawing the air with the scratching of metal legs against worn tile.

The first had no time to run before she dragged him up and threw him across the room. He crashed against the bin and the wall behind it and lay there covered in leftovers.

She lunged as the second grabbed the nearest weapon available, a chair, and brought it over his head. She leapt at him feet first and delivered crushing kicks to his groin, belly and face; the last one whipped him back while his opponent did a backflip. He crashed into the table, breaking it in two.

The cloaked lady stood up straight and breathed one big breath.

"Waste of my time…" she muttered to the deaf ears of those she had downed, the man covered in garbage and the guy on the flattened table. She must have been using a synthesiser because her voice came out deep and overlayed with a mechanical tone.

She returned to the spot she stood before being found out. The tile was just as mundane as the rest surrounding it (save for a stubborn coffee stain and crack running through it) but her senses drew her.

"This is the spot."

She pulled from her pocket a piece of paper and unfolded it. The writing on it was in Old Norwegian. A language lost to many; however, she knew it well enough to make it her native tongue. With one hand over the spot, she recited the words and the tile glowed, waved, and vanished like a mirage.

There lay a secret long forgotten. A set of ancient, twisted stairs led down into an inky darkness below. Now she knew how Indiana Jones felt in the Last Crusade. She gave the door one final check for spies, along with the two men to ensure they were out for the count before making her descent. Each step was tall and uncomfortably thin, the twist itself tight; how anyone from a thousand years back was supposed to walk up and down these with ease, she could never figure out.

At the bottom, after dropping a full five hundred yards, she reached the bottom. To think this was beneath the mall the whole time without anybody realising. One of the last secrets from the old world, back when magic among humans was more prevalent. The tomb of the old mages.

She walked down the aisle between two rows of stone sarcophaguses, having to keep her head down against the low ceiling. The place was overrun by a stale, stony stench. A few long abandoned cobwebs crumbled to dust upon coming into contact with the masked woman. She gave a couple of graves a passing glance, thinking that one or two of those mages might have been one of the seven responsible for the imprisonment of monsters a long time ago. It didn't matter to her.

At the end of the tomb's length lay a chest. As tall as her knees and covered in thick, dried, blackened leather, it appeared to be the one thing in this tomb that had stood the test of time. No lock, no traps, the lid opened with a thousand year croak. Inside, a stack of rolled parchment; ancient spells, meant to be died along with the mages.

She grabbed the first with a huge degree of carefulness, considering that these scrolls were over a thousand years of age. Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly, the parchment felt soft, flexible, still coated in its wax. Did the mages use magic to keep these intact all this time or with some preservation technique hundreds of years ahead of their time? Considering a password was needed purely to gain entrance, she guessed the former.

She pulled back the flap to catch the first line, also written in Old Norwegian. No.

She took the next one up and checked its title. Still no.

The third time was the charm. After pulling back the top, she unravelled it out.

Her head nodded slowly in appeasement.

* * *

With bags full of stolen goods, two members of the group made their way back to the trucks, ducking down past the grated gate and across the plaza, guiding the way with their flashlights. Along the way, they noticed the toy store had been broken into, one of their own was loading up playthings into a separate bag.

"Seriously, man?" one of the two, bending down under the gate, remarked.

The toy stealer stopped a moment and grabbed the next toy from the long line of plushies: a stuffed teddy bear in a sailing captain's hat and scarf. "You're never too old for these," he said as he shoved it in with the rest. The bear landed on top of an alien figurine known as Monsieur Martian: a green-greyish creature with a tiny body, a long, hairless head, two black snow globes for eyes, a silver spacesuit with a fishbowl helmet, wielding a gun straight out of any science fiction serial and sporting a dashing moustache from the nineteenth century. He tightened the string on that bag before shouldering a second by his ankles; it jangled with quality whisky and wine. "Just a little on the side for me."

"It better be," chimed in the third guy. Already, his arm was growing numb from the toasters hanging over his back. "Just, uh, you know…" He pinched the corner of his lips and made a zipping noise as he pulled his fingers across. "Don't go telling the big man about this."

The toy stealer ducked under the gate and joined the two.

"Tell me something I don't know."

Guiding their way back, the eeriness refused to let go, like being locked-in at work after hours. The scattered beams from their colleagues on the bottom and top floors hardly helped, if anything, they served more as a distraction – a hindrance. Despite the dead of night, the subtlety of their entrance, the sureness placed in their techie and the success so far, the group felt too loud and too forceful. At any moment, their thoughts could be drowned out by an alarm they had missed or they could exit to find police waiting. They just wanted to swipe as much valuables as they could and go, and possibly swing around MTT-Brand Burger and pick up some glamburgers and legendary heroes while they were at it.

The three had reached a connecting hallway when…

"Ho ho ho!"

A boisterous laugh startled them. It echoed, one after another, across the expanse. With flashlights aimed straight ahead, a round shadow moved toward them.

"Who the…?" one of the men breathed.

The laughing man appeared after a few more steps.

Santa Claus himself, in his red suit with fluffy white trimmings and glistening buttons jiggling over a pot belly. A bushy white beard framed his laughing mouth and brought out the blueness in his eyes and the redness in his nose and cheeks. He approached with arms open as if expecting a hug from one of the thugs. A sack hung from his right hand.

Santa's laughter ceased, yet his jolliness stayed. "Hello there, chaps," he greeted the trio of masked thugs, speaking in a deeply accented English accent – the kind one would imagine when thinking of jolly Saint Nick. "Quite the night for some shopping, I see."

The same thug felt his frown bend upwards. "Hey hey, if it isn't good ol' Kris Kringle to share some festive spirit."

He laughed, then they all did.

Everyone laughed.

'Santa' continued forward, smiling and leading with the sack in hand. Whatever this guy was on, it made him completely ignorant to the bad deeds unravelling before his eyes. Those crooks wanted some.

"Wha'cha got there?" the second goon asked. "Some early Christmas presents?"

'Santa' halted and set the plump sack down to the muted crumple of wrapping paper. "Indeed," he said. "A gift from me to you."

The toy stealer remained in place as his two associates, without hesitation, went up, with one going for the bag and the other with his eyes on the saint. A loose knot of thick golden rope kept the mouth sealed. As the knot was undone, curiosity got the better of the other guy. The flap opened and, before they could glimpse what was inside, out blasted a punch of thick smoke – so thick that they could not see the eyeholes of their masks. He almost dropped his stashes, his buddies having vanished along with Santa. The smokescreen so sudden that none of them had time to react.

"W-what ha—"

"I can't se—"

The toy stealer avoided touching the wisps as they expanded out from window to window.

The guy in charge of extracting the green insides from the cash machines – Jericho – came trundling up with a full bag, drawn to the spectacle as the others were. Beams of light and the rising cacophony of worried voices were going that way. For all they knew, a special forces unit had just infiltrated the complex.

Before Jericho could get a word out, a ruby-coloured trail shot from the smoke, wrapped around his wrist and nearly wretched him arm from his socket as it dragged him in in a shower of paper rain.

The toy stealer turned and ran.

"Guys, guys!" The hollowness carried his voice further than he anticipated. "Come quick! We got troub—"

His world turned dark as a glitter-encrusted snowflake whirled through the air and bounced off the back of his head. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. The bag of swiped toys spilled out into a puddle upon his crash landing.

The remaining seventeen stopped what they were stealing and rushed into the passageway to find the smoke dispersing and four men down, out cold.

Honcho Mouse straddled to the scene, his own bravado there to save the day.

"What is going on—?"

A cry drew him up to find one of the guys above fell over the railing and stopped halfway to the ground, being held up by a red ribbon. Then the legs were taken out from under the skinny hacker and he flew, upside-down and screaming, all the way up to where the giant baubles and bells hung. Speaking of which, a few fell. The robbers leapt to dodge them, hearing their shatter against tiling.

A massive blur of red and white landed between two members, grabbed both their skulls and smashed them together. Another two nearest charged without stopping to consider that they were going up against Santa Claus. One with a lead pipe and the other believing a weapon gave a great disservice to his fists. The pipe swung and Santa dodged it. It kept going and caught the other guy in the shin. Santa punched the batter, taking him down as a third guy joined the fray.

The rest merely watched. None of them knew whether to stand and fight, run away crying, or crash onto their backsides laughing. The old man in the red suit took down the two guys in seconds with some precision Kung Fu. How can someone so fat be so fast?

Honcho Mouse, less than amused, reached into an inner pocket of his coat.

* * *

The woman in the scarlet cloak had just finished scooping the last of the ancient scrolls into the bag when three pops sounded, coming for outside the tomb. All she did was lift her head toward the stone stairs and form a small grin beneath her mask.

"He's here," she said to herself as she zipped the bag shut. "And he's going to town."

* * *

Everything ceased as a sulfuric smell emanated from the smoking handgun; three shell casings rolled around the leader's feet. In the blubbery folds of Santa's belly, the bullets were buried deep. However, despite having been shot, his face bore no evidence of pain.

Santa patted his girth, stretched back, breathed in, and the bullets popped out and clinked against the floor.

He breathed out and shook his head. "Naughty, naughty."

His hands were thrown forth and more shuriken snowflakes zipped from his sleeves. Before more shots could be fired, Honcho Mouse hit the deck, hearing the whirl over his head.

Unhindered by how well it worked the first time, a few more members of the gang reached inside coats and behind backs for more guns. Time slowed down as Santa Claus spotted a cluster of five.

_The perfect opportunity,_ he thought, _for a sleeping gas grenade._

He reached for the space of his belt allocated for the said sleeping grenade and felt the tight leathers of his belt.

_Dearie me_ , he thought again in the brief moment the crooks levelled their firearms. His fingers patted around, failing to locate it. _I seem to have misplaced it._

At least the criminals were kind enough to have stitched mouth holes into their balaclavas, otherwise, how else would Santa know that they were sfeeling. Pressure was applied to the trigger, then a dart sank into the soft skin of someone's neck. His finger went still, as did his cocky smile and every muscle in his body.

The rest turned too late as a silhouette – a shadow against the starless sky – glided down on massive wings, firing rapidly into the swarms; one man went down in a shocking buzz of electricity.

"Oh, my god!" one of the crooks cried and pointed. "It's the freakin' Shadowy Saviour! She's found us!"

Her majestic entrance granted much horror; swooshing midnight hair, large bat wings, milky eyes behind that mask, a full costume of bulletproof armour with a double-S on the chest. Now was the time to be afraid.

"No, no, not her!" they cried.

"I just made bail after she put me away last time!" they screamed.

"The bruise on my pinkie toe just faded!" they whined.

The superhero – secretly named Barb, secretly a former bounty hunter and secretly from the Outerworld – swooped in fast feet first and kicked down a poor soul as he tried to make a break for it. The guns were now directed from Santa to her. The first bullet pinged off the Shadowy Saviour's wrist guard before she dove for cover behind an information kiosk. Even as the bullets bore chunks from the corners, a presence invaded her as if she was not alone. Right beside her, Santa sat, sharing her cover. He appeared quite relaxed; back straight, legs crossed, would have suited a smoking pipe and a cup of tea.

Her eyes squinted. "You're… Santa?" she asked, raising her voice over the din of gunfire.

"And you're the Shadowy Saviour," he answered, paying no heed to the pockmarks being made inches above his head. "I've heard many good things about you." Out extended a gloved hand. "Nice to finally meet you."

It was most bizarre given their current predicament, the bullets popping from guns, and yet she took it.

"Nice to meet you too, I guess. And, thanks?"

More fragments chipped from the edges. Shuffling steps and reserved voices switched back and forth between fighting and fleeing. Meanwhile, Honcho Mouse had no idea what to think. First monsters, then superheroes, and now Santa? However, this rare event acted more as an invitation. Many could only dream of taking down the Shadowy Saviour and Pere Noel in one night. No doubt doing so would elevate a small fry crook into full-blown legend.

"So, uh," Barb continued, "you're into crime-fighting too?" She received a nod from the jolly saint. "Never would've pegged it."

"There're many ways to make Christmas that little bit happier," Santa said. "Giving presents works, helping the less fortunate also works, putting away dangerous people also works. All those things help."

Barb, the Shadowy Saviour, glanced over her shoulder as the gunfire started to die down, slowly being replaced by the clapping of boot soles. "I'd love to chat, but I reckon we've got more pressing matters." She removed a couple smoke pellets from her belt. "I'll take the ones on the left, you take the ones on the right?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Santa responded.

At the crack and bang of the last shot, the pellets went out and the entire kiosk of Swiss cheese vanished. The unlikely duo burst out, punching and kicking the remaining bad guys into submission – all of whom were no match for their skills. They tried to fight to no avail. They tried to run but never got that far.

With a hard thud, Honcho Mouse found himself to be the last man standing, the rest of his gang a conga line of unconsciousness, stolen goods and cones of light up and down the mall. Alone and with only two rounds left in his gun, he stood outnumbered against a dream he stopped believing when he was four and his worst nightmare.

"Stay back!" He raised his gun, switching the aim between the two. For the first in a while, his heart beat against his ribcage. "I'm warning you!"

Before he could pull the trigger, the Shadowy Saviour snatched it with a precise shot of her grapple hook and whipped it away across the floor.

"Do you want to take him," she said, cracking her knuckles, "or shall I?"

Santa Claus stroked his beard, assessing the situation; one bruiser of a guy left, unarmed but not defenceless.

He reached into an inside pocket of his coat. "Want to see something interesting?" he asked as he whipped out a long, cylindrical can. It was shiny blue and had a white nozzle up top like that found on deodorant or hairspray. Whether that question was directed at the superhero or the petty crook would become apparent as he pressed down the nozzle and leisurely rolled the can across. Mouse should have ran, but that sense refused to kick in, instead choosing to stay put and watch the spray can roll up, stop against his boot, shift a little to the left and roll back out a couple of inches. It exploded in a cloud of white; it spread out, consuming Honcho Mouse until it had seized everything except his head and his left hand, then stopped.

The Honcho, too shocked for words, was unable to move anything expect for what was outside the white cloud. He pushed his muscles to their limits but was unable to budge by as much as a millimetre.

The Shadowy Saviour had an eyebrow arched as she neared. "Is that foam?"

Santa replied, "Not just any foam."

She was up-close to him now. Despite the drastic difference in height and muscle tone, Mouse possessed the slight tremble she had grown accustomed to seeing in her line of work. Her finger raised and he reacted as if it were an executioner's axe ready to relinquish the weight off his shoulders. All she did was whip up a smidgen. It had a thick but gooey and fluffy texture that compelled Barb to put it in her mouth. She licked it off her finger and awarded her taste buds with a rich, smooth taste.

"Whipped cream?"

"The thickest there is," Santa said. He watched as a disbelieving Barb sampled another dollop. "And the tastiest."

Honcho Mouse, having heard that, began to scoop up what he could onto his little finger and narrowly nab it on his tongue. As he swallowed that bit, he went to work in shovelling up some more. Neither Barb nor Santa were concerned; at that rate, he would have ate his way out by the time next Christmas rolled around.

"I wouldn't eat too much of that if I were you." Santa pulled up on his belt, finding the spectacle quite amusing. "You'll give yourself a tummy ache."

Before the Shadowy Saviour could add to his quip, another voice rang out: "Oh, how jolly of you."

At the other end of the floor, the staff door was open and the light streaming out turned the lone woman into a walking shadow. The redness in his cloak, the white in the mask and the dark shade of her bag could just about be made out. The thug trapped in the cream had no idea what he had just stumbled into.

"You know, I had a strange feeling Saint Nick would be into beating people up," she continued. Her masked voice spread far, its croaky, crackling nature made it echo easily. "Good to see you sticking to your strengths."

After wiping her finger on the leg of her costume, the Shadowy Saviour said the newcomer, "Hey, Kylo Ren, is your calendar working? Pretty sure Halloween was two months back."

The woman in the cloak stayed silent; her only hint that she listened was from the slight tilt to her head.

Santa craned his head toward those littering the mall. "Are these fellas with you, by any chance?" He gestured to them as he spoke.

This got a response: "Oh, please. Like I'd be associated with these chumps."

"And who might you be, exactly?"

"I'm your replacement, Nicholas." The strangers other arm retreated beneath the folds of her cloak. "You're looking at the new Santa Claus."

Barb, the superhero, gave the saint beside her a glance. Now she was wondering what kind of rivalry she had walked into. Santa himself refused to stop smiling, the light in his blue eyes shone bright, appearing to take this throwing down of the gauntlet in stride.

"Fascinating. And what's your name? Surely the new Santa Claus must have a name. A posh one that rolls right off the tongue."

The woman shook her head. "I'm just a prophet. The prophet to your downfall—" she pulled out a gun and aimed it straight down "—so I don't need one."

The body of the gun gleamed white and the end was unlike anything they had seen. Beside her lay the sack of toys the toy stealer was trying to nab. She blasted some kind of weird energy into a stuffed bear with a sailing captain's hat before turning it on an alien toy, Monsieur Martian. The two toys, shrouded in crackling power, shook madly before they grew in size.

The teddy bear, while his hat and scarf remained, rose on elephant legs. Those cotton limbs grew claws. The knitted smile parted to the sight of dripping fangs, and those marble eyes grew black with monstrous intent that was directed straight at the two heroes.

The alien, Monsieur Martian, reach a height of six feet, most of which was thanks to his head. As his pitch black, oval eyes took in planet Earth for the first time, he spouted from his tiny mouth a croaky dialect only he and his kind could understand. In his hand, the microwave gun turned from fiction to a living fact.

"You see, Nick?" the woman – this Prophet – said as the bear and the alien turned against them. "I don't need helpers, I can make my own whenever I want."

Two inanimate objects had just been given life, a first for both of them, yet Santa said, as cool and calm as a cucumber, "It would seem my line of work just got a whole lot more interesting."

The Shadowy Saviour added, "That makes two of us."

Prophet released her foot from the door, allowing it to close on its own accord. The broad line of light shrank.

"We'll see how jolly you remain—" A loud click saw the staff door behind her shut "—when they have to scrap what's left of you off the floor."

By the time their eyes had readjusted to the darkness, she had vanished.


	3. Upon the Midnight Clear

The Prophet was gone, but the threat of the eight foot tall teddy bear and alien invader were very much present. One advanced, thumping hard with every step, and the other with a quiet, menacing gait.

"So, uh," Barb began, "got any experience with grizzlies?" She remained focused on the new foes, apprehensive that they would strike if her guard went down.

Santa replied, "Faced down a few in my time."

"That's still a few more than me." She rolled her milky eyes, remembering memories several thousand feet above ground. "Real charmer, he was."

"What about you? Have you dealt with aliens before?" asked Santa.

The Shadowy Saviour raised a hand, while keeping it flat, above her head. "I've dealt with a few hundred monsters on a higher altitude. Does that count?"

"Most likely not. But I don't think we can afford to be picky right now."

"Let's swap."

Both Santa and Barb shuffled past each other so that they faced their chosen opponents; him against the bear and her against the Martian. So oddly shaped and proportioned Monsieur Martian was. Had the Outerworld still existed, he would have fitted in perfectly.

No matter how much the bear salivated or bared his teeth, there was no getting past the captain's hat or the scarf with such a cuddly name written in blue writing: _Albie._ Both articles of clothing were as glued on as when he was inanimate. Albie, the bear, roared and charged at the old man, whose red suit acted as one big target. Santa ducked and weaved the first swipe and made his way further into the mall.

Monsieur Martian aimed his microwave gun at the Shadowy Saviour, who remained in place, disbelieving.

She gestured to the weapon. "That's not a real blaster, surely—"

From the orb tip, a green blast that vibrated the air came toward her. Those heightened senses kicked in and she dove to the side, narrowly dodging the blast. She looked at what lay behind her and found an entire display window blackened, the mannequins inside sizzled to a crisp.

She turned back to the alien. "I stand corrected."

The alien aimed at her new spot, and she cartwheeled out the way as the microwave gun sang, blemishing the floor with a nasty burn mark.

In the front row seat to this spectacle, Honcho Mouse watched helpless as the costumed superhero span over hand and foot across the floor, unintentionally past him.

She darted first, then came the arc of deadly radiation.

He cried, "Oh, geez!"

Too late, he clenched his teeth as the beam passed over him, feeling traces of warmth lash across his covered face. He waited for whatever horrors such levels of radioactivity would inflict upon his body; death might be instantaneous, or slow and painful over the course of minutes or months; the glass might not have been half-empty, he might very well gain superpowers. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils and was nearly overwhelmed by the smell.

He glanced down. The rich whiteness in his temporary prison had been replaced with a shade of golden brown that made his mouth water. Now he was literally irresistible. His little finger tapped again the cream, finding it to have solidified into a substance more brittle. Honcho Mouse flexed his toned arm and heard cracking, witnessed the growing of several cracks around his free hand. After a few seconds of pushing and pulling, his entire arm broke free with powder still clinging to it.

"A-ha!" He had detected his chance.

Using his free hand, he pushed against his chest and managed to break off a large chunk. Before tossing it, he bite off a piece and hummed happily as it tasted exactly like toasted marshmallow.

* * *

Another slash of claws was evaded by the saint.

"Albert," he spoke into his ear mic, "any ideas against Albie here?"

The sound of his assistant's soothing voice offered little comfort. "Give me a scan, sir, and I'll examine the findings."

_Slash!_ Big Albie made firewood out of a poorly placed bench. Santa hopped off the armrest and whipped one of his red ribbons around the bear's wrist. Albie threw his arm and Santa used the sudden motion to wrap it around the bear. Around and around he went, wrapping coil after coil until the bear was like a mummy. A ruby-red mummy. Still, he growled and snarled and pulled against the bindings.

A pair of goggles slipped down from underneath Santa's hat and landed on the bridge of his nose. The passage, the living teddy bear, and the entire surroundings became masked in hues of green. Red lines ran up, down, left and right on Albie, getting a read on his ins and outs.

"Analysing the data now," Albert said, accompanied by some rapid key tapping. "This won't take long."

The bear in the sailor hat bulged against his bindings. The strain on those ribbons could be both seen and heard.

"Ah, most interesting," Santa's loyal butler returned. "I'm detecting a large build-up of magical energy within that toy. While I can't get an exact reading on its origins, it does bear a remarkable resemblance to a monster's physiology."

The first ribbon snapped.

"Meaning?" Santa asked.

Bang went another.

"Meaning you should be able to pacify it in the exact same manner."

A third ribbon reached its threshold.

"So you're saying Albie here won't fight me if I either appease him or pummel him senseless?"

"Precisely."

More ribbons snapped, falling in ruby shreds around Albie's ankles.

"Then I shall take your word for it, my good man. I didn't want to hurt him in the first place." He turned back to Albie who had freed himself from his bonds and looked angrier than before. "Mainly because I don't think I can."

Saint Nick had seconds to think: what makes bears happy? Especially the cuddly, stuffed variety given life?

At the end of that stretch, paved open, the aisles of the supermarket area stood like obsidian obelisks. He bolted toward it, Albie on his heels, knowing one thing that bears liked.

* * *

Barb the former bounty hunter dove out from behind a pillar. Monsieur Martian and that caricature moustache were visible down the sights of both wrist launchers. Paralysing darts and stun pellets plinked off that armour and helmet, the plastic having become a super strong alloy found only on his home planet, or a planet conquered by his kind. The fish bowl of a helmet was possibly hinted with a diamond reinforcement.

The alien took aim and fired, knowing full well that his enemy's armour was useless against concentrated energy, reducing the tinsel around a column to ash. The Shadowy Saviour took flight, launching herself up into the canopy of oversized stars and baubles. Just as her name suggested, she became one with the shadows – invisible and silent.

From the top of a star close to the skylight, she found the Martian in his spot, staring up with those beady eyes of his. She was safe, or so it seemed. Monsieur Martian tapped one of the many buttons that made up a console on his sleeve. A cloud of dust billowed out from around him, followed by a blue light under his boots. It didn't take long for her to figure out that he had taken flight on a pair of thrusters. He ascended into his target's last known place before toggling a light on his chest, then launching flares from his suit that stuck onto any vertical surface, illuminating that area too. As cones of light arched near, the Shadowy Saviour realised she was running out of options.

That pesky bat had to be somewhere. The light illuminated one hanging decoration; nothing. A set of bells would have acted as the perfect disguise, and yet there was nothing. He zipped and scanned and brightened the way, searching for as much as an inch of wing, of black costume, of grey fur. Monsieur Martian spotted a silhouette – the unmistakable shape of head and shoulders – hanging from the ceiling. Believing to possess the element of surprise, he floated up indirectly to the shadow, darted out and… stopped, having almost reduced some puny human into cinders.

A kick into his back knocked the alien face-first onto the top floor. Barb, balanced on the guardrail, had weapons trained on him, hoping he would stay down. The Martian toy shuddered, twitched, grumbled in his language, and then rolled onto his back. She caught the blaster being turned in her direction before she dove backward off the rail. The midnight sky waved with traces of green.

Those wings spread and guided the superhero across the passage, under the platforms and over; over, under and around the decorations. The din of thrusters caught up behind, along with a beam of light. Feeling like being in a movie, she zipped and dodged, avoiding the pillars, the garlands, and the shots from the microwave gun.

A crackle sounded in her ear that almost thrown her off-course, followed by a voice: "Greetings, Ms Saviour."

"What?" she muttered as she squeezed through a gap in the hangings. "Who is this?"

"I'm Santa's personal assistant. Please forgive my intrusion, but I gathered you listen to police channels, so I took the liberty of hacking into your frequency to provide you with some support."

"Firstly: rude." Barb threaded the needed through a stall of handmade goods. "Secondly: how can you help me against that?"

Over her shoulder, Monsieur Martian was hot on her trail.

"It's rather simple: you can pacify him by either appeasing him or beating him. You have done so with other monsters, have you not?"

Barb focused on avoiding the columns first. "The latter, yes," she said. "The former, no."

"Then you shouldn't have much hassle with this one."

"Well, thanks, I guess."

Now all she had to figure out was what would make this space invader happy.

* * *

Those aisles weren't big enough to support the girth of someone as wide as Albie, the sailor teddy bear given life. He made wide arcs with his claws in an attempt to hit the portly old man in his path, succeeding only to destroying some perfectly good cranberry sauce, processed peas, sliced carrots and sweetcorn.

With each missed swing, Albie's anger only increased. How was this man not tired yet? Santa swayed, avoiding each attack as if they weren't there.

The next slash caught a bag of flour, bursting a screen of white that went straight into the bear's eyes, blinding him. Through fuzzy vision, Santa reached the central divide and made a sharp left turn toward the covered displays at the far side. Albie gave chase and momentarily lost sight when his target hopped over to the other side.

Albie charged with feet pounding and claws flailing and mouth agape, roaring his mighty bear roar. Then something landed in it, shutting him up in an instant.

Whatever it was, it was cold, fresh, slimed with a fishy taste, delicious. The bear chewed and chomped, and gulped it down with one greedy gulp. As the fish reached his belly, the perpetual rage inside him simmered a little.

"You enjoyed that?" Santa peeked over the counter. More fish in hand. "Here, have some more."

He threw the fish into the air and Albie was overcome with a desire not to brutally hunt the man in the red suit but to snatch the thing of gills and scales. As soon as he was done with that one, another was thrown straight into his waiting mouth. With each fish he gobbled, the lower his anger dropped and the closer he sank to the floor. After the tenth one, he was flat and satisfied.

"There you go," said Santa in a soothing voice.

He wondered briefly what was going to happen next. The answer arrived shortly later. The bear in the captain's hat began to shrink in size. His clawed paws devolved into stubby mitts. That pelt of fur returned to its cotton glory. Those large eyes reverted back to marbles. His drooling frown became a knitted smile. Saint Nick watched as the huge creature deflated back into a regular teddy bear.

"Well, I never," he mused. "It worked."

* * *

_Think, Saviour of the Shadows, think,_ she pondered. Her mind moving as fast as her wings. _What do Martian's like? Martians like Mars, for starters. And space. And invading from space. They like being taken to their leader, and cornfields, and performing experiments on puny earthlings, and vaporising puny earthlings._

She glanced back over her shoulders. That last one did not help. Traces of heat licked against her suit.

She just barely noticed that the cream holding Honcho Mouse in place had been broken apart, and the leader himself was gone. There existed detailed profiles of his burly body.

_They also like abducting people, like single farmers and homeless guys and…_

She got it.

After making another round of the mall grounds, she zipped down to ground level and spotted, halfway down the length, the toy store. The grate was low, there was so much room for error, and yet she eased straight through. Larger than what the mall let on, the shop allowed room for only a few valuable seconds of flight. The superhero waited for the right moment before spreading her wings and stopping right as her pursuer swooped in. He approached fast, having no time to react before his prey grabbed him, flipped him, and kicked him into a stand in the north-western corner. Monsieur Martian crashed into a massive explosion of stuffed toys, which proceeded to rain down on him and bury him.

The Shadowy Saviour landed and took aim.

When the carnage settled, the giant, round helmet rose from the fluffy tide. Those black eyes behind it were narrow, his tiny mouth arched down deeply. The arm bearing the microwave gun appeared and took aim; however, he stopped upon glimpsing a toy balanced on his sleeve. Black and white, the stuffed cow gazed at him with adorable, light eyes.

His lips parted and his target actually understood him for once. "Moo moo," he whispered.

The wave of toys that buried him were all cows. He was swimming in cows. Cows. Patchy milk cows. Brown walk-about cows. Buffalos and bisons. Spanish fighting bulls and Texas Longhorns. Cows. Cows. Cows. All four-legged, big bodied, small tailed and snub snouted.

"Moo moo." That mouth curved upwards as he took one and pressed it against his glass dome. "Moo moo." The alien's long face grew an expression of appeasement as he made the cow trot along and invisible path and graze on invisible grass.

He sat there, playing with the toys for several minutes before crashing backwards and disappearing underneath the shallow pond. All that time, Barb watched with weapons drawn, although she did find such a love for cattle to be quite endearing. She waited for Monsieur Martian to resurface, but he didn't.

She marched forward, taking each step slow. As she neared, she tried to anticipate him bursting out when she least expected it, but he never did. Scanning for traces showed nothing. Up close, Barb brushed away a few toys before finding a regular Monsieur Martian action figure lying in its original position among the stuffed animals. Back to being plastic and having been made in China. A tap caused it to nudge over slightly, but remain lifeless.

"Well done, lass!"

Looking up, Santa Claus stood by the grated gate. A stuffed bear in his possession.

"I couldn't have done that any better myself," he continued.

Suddenly, Prophet's scratchy voice rang out from the expanse: "Congratulations are in order, Nicholas!"

Barb rushed out and joined Santa as he stared at the ominous outline of the woman above. Cloak drifting in the winter air.

"Enjoy your victory while you can," continued Prophet. "It'll be your last. Before Christmas Eve is over, you'll be dead, and as the new Santa Claus, I will reshape Christmas into my image."

That woman stepped backwards, out of sight.

"See you around, Nick."

Santa launched a grapple hook, with a tinsel line, up to the top while the superhero used her trusted wings. Together, they slipped out the open skylight and into the winter chill to find Prophet gone. A trail of fresh footprints led to the edge, but she was nowhere to be found scaling the structure's side, or running across the empty lot.

Santa's index finger went to his ear. "Albert," he began, "did you see where she nicked off to?"

Albert's response came back loud and clear: "Afraid not, sir. Surrounding surveillance footage turned up nothing. It's most likely that she's taken to the air."

"That's what I was afraid of," Santa said with a sigh. "Something tells me we haven't seen the last of her."

"I'll remain ever vigilant."

As his digit slid down the side of his cheek, Santa admired the city horizon in its black and golden glory. He faced the bat monster at his side. Her career as a masked vigilant was young and yet he felt honoured to be in her presence.

"Who was she?" asked the saviour of the shadows, looking around for any trace of the robed villain.

"Not a clue. But I've faced down bigger fish before, so no big shakes." Santa gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder. "By the way, good work back there. I can see why bad guys fear you."

"Hey, thanks," returned the Shadowy Saviour, smiling. For being a dark protector of the night whom made villains fear the sun going down, there was nothing remotely stern or solemn in her personality. In fact, she was rather bubbly. "You weren't bad yourself."

They stood there and savoured this moment – time that both figured they'd only get to do once.

Santa went on, "This might sound a little silly, but… I don't suppose there's anything you'd like for Christmas?"

To this, the Shadowy Saviour blinked. "But I'm not a kid."

Santa waved it off. "Everyone wants something. I believe you've earned a special request."

"Well…" She glanced away and scratched at the back of her head. "There might be something, but it's a little embarrassing."

"Trust me, I've heard every ludicrous wish there is. Try me."

The monster superhero inhaled through teeth. The itch only got worse.

"You see," Barb said, "I've been cleaning the streets for some months now, and…"

"Go on."

"And I've taken down a ton of crooks, but none of them have that memorable feel. None of them have really been able to stand toe to toe with me, you know what I'm saying? I'd love, like, someone who actually could. Someone who I could call a…"

"A supervillain? A nemesis?"

"Yeah, exactly!" Barb shouted, snapping her fingers. "Like how Batman has the Joker, or how Superman has Lex Luthor."

Santa added, "He-Man with Skeletor?"

"Right. And Pirates versus Ninjas."

"Vampires versus Werewolves."

"Republicans versus Democrats."

Santa held his hands up. "Ho ho, let's not get too political here."

Barb grinned, a bead of sweat ran down her head. "Right, sorry." The snowy peaks beyond fascinated her. Never in all her years had she seen a winter quite as genuine as this. It helped to ease her mind. "Still, a supervillain I could call a nemesis would be cool though. Then we could have weekly battles, and he or she would have this diabolical plan that I'd have to stop, and…" She stopped to compose herself. "Yeah, that would be great."

"In that case, I'll see what I can do," Santa assured.

"Sure thing." Barb gave a thumbs up. Deep down, however, she knew it was all a pipedream. "Thanks, Santa." Although, it was a pipe she would gladly dream in.

Down into the dim mall, the view through the open skylight allowed a halo of snow to form at the bottom, lying as still as the beaten up bad guys. Already, some were regaining consciousness.

She said, "We did a real number on those guys."

"On the contrary," Santa began. His finger returned to ear canal. "Albert, edit the camera footage." Right about then, his sleigh – his iconic ride – zoomed from out the sky not with the aid of reindeer, but with four thrusters of blue flame. It came in hot, stopping in an instant above him. He turned back to the superhero. " _You_ did a real number on those guys," he finished, adding a wink in for good measure.

There was a hidden message relayed in his words, and the Shadowy Saviour understood them as clear as crystal as the saint hoisted himself into his ride and seized a pair of riding leathers. Again, there were no reindeer; the reins stretched down to the sleigh's underbelly.

"All the best to you on the years ahead," he said and waved a salute. "And may all your Christmases be bright."

With a snap of the reins, Santa and his sleigh took off as fast as it had come. By the time the blue contrail had faded, he was probably two states away.

Alone, Barb remained on that roof, having come from a strange land and witnessing the strangest night of her life.

"What a night."

Down below, the overrev of an engine, the crunch of gears, the screech of tyres. A lone van skidded out onto the parking lot, unable to stay straight on the slippery tarmac. The back was open a shade and out spilled a few designer lamps.

"And I'm only getting started."

* * *

Honcho Mouse, in front of the wheel, fought to keep the vehicle under control. The rattle of jewellery, laptops, televisions, toasters, DVD players and five hundred buck jeans served as an excellent motivation. There was well over a hundred thousand bucks in produce in the back, and a massive decline in the party meant more in it for him. In fact, it was all his.

The leader no more juggled between keeping the van on four wheels, checking his mirrors, and gnawing chunks from a piece of the cream that entrapped him earlier. His head was twisting and turning in all directions. Unfortunately for him, the most important direction at that time was up.

The entire frontend crumpled. Honcho Mouse was thrown forward into the airbag. Confusion and disorientation set in as he tried to figure out what was going on. He clawed away at the balloon and wished that he had died in the collision as he came into contact with white eyes glaring at him from beyond the cracked windshield.

* * *

Ten minutes later, a police cruiser rolled down the road. The upmost point of the mall was in sight.

The partner in the passenger seat picked up the intercom. "Responding to an emergency call at…"

His vocals deceived him as they went into the straight and found a smoking van in the parking lot. The driver wished he could just gun the gas and keep going.

The leader of Team Mouse lay pressed against the wall, along with a few of those in cahoots with him. Massive writing along the side of the getaway vehicle said it all:

**Season's Greetings from the Shadowy Saviour**

"We're going to need some backup," the cop murmured into the radio, spellbound. "A lot of backup.


	4. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

The morning of Christmas Eve: the last chance to get everything ready. As if the fates themselves had given the unlucky ones a break, the skies were clear and blue all the way to the powdered ends of the Earth with no chance of a speck of snowfall that day. One month into winter and there had already been enough for one year, with the daunting prospect of another two months’ worth to come.

In a quiet, country suburb, a single car chugs past the Dreemurr house at a safe ten miles per hour on the ploughed and gritted road. This particular house, despite the difference in those who resided there, looked as fancy and as festive as any other, with snow on the roof, lights hanging around gutters, a couple of signs planted in the front garden, the path and driveway freshly shovelled, and a Christmas tree visible from the living room window.

Beneath the tree lay presents great and small wrapped in sparkling, shimmering paper from the family, for the family. Tinsel hung from over the framed pictures. Four stockings hung from the mantle beneath tiny ornaments of Santa, snowmen, Rudolph, Christmas trees, and cards from friends (especially the new ones from outside the Underground) which dotted the empty spaces and hung in columns down the doors.

There was a postcard of Mount Fuji and some text which was either a season’s greeting, a birthday wish or the price. The back read, in two styles of writing:

_Have yourselves a Nice Christmas_

_Yes, Merry Xmas, ho ho ho. Hope that northern hemisphere weather’s working well for you_

_You do realise, Haze, that we’re going back for the holidays?_

_I’m not taking lip from a whippersnapper like you_

_I’m still older than you_

_We’re running out of lines. Wrap it up_

_Have a Merry Christmas_

_From Maxus_

_And Haze_

A homemade card, made with brown card and decorated with ribbons, paper and glitter. The inside a mess of crosses and scribbles:

_~~Happy Holidays~~ **~~Seasons Greetings~~ **Merry **Christmas**_

_~~May the next year be prosperous~~ **~~Best wishes for the New Year~~ **And a happy **New Year**_

_From Sam **an’ Rita**_

A superhero Christmas card, complete with comic book lettering, colouring, shading, and an exclamation point at the end of each line:

_Have a Merry Christmas!_

_And a Heroic New Year!_

_Love from Barb!_

A large store-bought card for a baby’s first Christmas, crumpled, and the price tag was still on the back; good to know a dollar as spent:

_Happy First Christmas_

_-Brute_

A regular Christmas card depicting adorable teddy bears in a winter wonderland:

_Merry Christmas to all the family_

_From Kat Fischer_

_(P.S – Let Undyne know I’m ready for another rematch)_

A triple folded card, stained with drool stains and a couple paw prints:

_Happy Holidays_

_Sorry there’s no bone in the envelope, the postal service wouldn’t allow it_

_From Perro and Chien_

A tiny card with a single Christmas tree on the face, mostly likely from a pack of fifty:

_Merry Christmas_

_From ~~Vail~~ Geoffrey_

A large, expensive looking card. The inside revealed it to be one of those blank ones:

_~~Today’s date: 14 th December~~ _

_~~Current time: 10:32am~~ _

_~~Snow depth: 4 inches~~ _

_~~Outside Temperature: -2 degrees Celsius~~ _

_~~Indoor tempura~~ _

_Please ignore the first lines. Old habits die hard._

_Happy Holidays_

_From Former Master Scribe Rickard_

A folded piece of paper with a five second, half-finished outline of a Christmas tree on the face:

_Merry Ch (you get the point)_

_Sans_

“Okay. Let us see.” In the kitchen, Toriel adjusted her specks as she checked down a long list. “The turkey is defrosted, stuffed, basted, covered, prepped and ready for cooking.” The said turkey was covered in tinfoil and resting on a backing tray. The first bullet point received a tick. “Check.”

Starting as a page from a small notebook, the list grew longer and longer with each day drawn closer to Christmas, now long enough to tickle her toes.

Toriel opened the freezer to reveal the assortment of frozen and chilled products. Each food package had a yellow sticky note attached with two times written on each. “Roast potatoes and vegetables labelled with their exact starting and finishing times.” She closed the door and ticked the next point. “Check.”

The fridge came next. Never before had the inside of one been so organised. She examined the bowl of cranberry sauce left to set, allowing her glasses to hang at her chest. “Undyne, how is the gravy coming along?” she asked without turning away.

Roaring, Undyne smashed her fist down on a pile of mushrooms, onions, and beef – all drizzled in wheat flour. This drew Toriel’s attention. After a few solid hits, she gingerly picked up the chopping board and titled it over a waiting gravy boat. The mushed, liquefied contents crawled down as thick and as slow as molasses.

“It’s coming along, alright,” she replied, smiling in a sinister fashion. The gravy ran another centimetre. “Just give it five minutes.”

Toriel pressed the nib of the eraser to her chin. “I would have used the gravy granules…” She gestured to the cardboard tube full of the instant stuff right next to Undyne, lying innocently on the kitchen top. “But we now have two choices. Check and double check.” Toriel could only smile as she ticked the page. At least she did not ask Undyne to preheat the oven. In fact, Undyne was not allowed anywhere near that contraption, at least until the start of the New Year. “Alphys, is the table ready for tomorrow?”

Through the open double door, Alphys grabbed the corner of the table cloth and pulled it down by a millimetre, hoping to make it perfectly level all the way around. Mettaton, with his visual judgement, would be able to do it in optimum time. Sadly, he was too busy preparing for his spectacular Christmas special, which Alphys was pretty sure they would be watching tomorrow, all huddled warm and cosy in the living room; herself next to Undyne. The very thought made her feel warm and tingly inside, although that could very well be the eggnog she put in the instant noodles she had that morning.

“As—as ready as i-it’ll ever be,” she replied. “The cutlery, glasses, and plates have all been cleaned and buffered.”

“How about the living room for the afternoon, after-dinner get together?”

“Cushions flipped. Corners cleaned. Carpet vacuumed. Air fresheners fully loaded with cinnamon spice fragrances. TV polished. Table polished. Bookcases polished. Books polished.”

“And the selection for what to watch?”

“All five magazines are on the table.”

“Wonderful.” Toriel seemed to ease up a bit as she ticked a number of points, much to Alphys’s relief.

The sticky gravy had shifted another couple of inches before Undyne worked up the sense to grab a wooden spoon to help it along from the board to the boat.

“Hey, Toriel,” she said while she scraped. “I don’t mean to sound like ‘that guy’, but… don’t you think you’re being too much of a…” For a moment, she twirled the gravy-slopped spoon as she struggled to find the right word. She plucked the first that popped into her head: “stickler?”

“A perfectionist, you mean?” Toriel responded rather calmly. She giggled even to the couple’s growing surprise. “To deny that would be such a painful cliché given the occasion, as well as be such an amateurish mistake for a character of my years.” She rubbed her brow with the back of his hand. “Yes, I have been asking a lot of everyone these past couple of weeks, but this is our first Christmas outside of the Underground—” _not the mention the first Christmas since Asriel returned_ “—and I only wish to make the occasion extra special for all of us.”

Alphys opened her mouth to add to the discussion, hoping that her own knowledge and experience on the festive season could open up a new branch in the dialogue tree. Then it occurred to her that she did not know much on the subject herself. The doctor’s own knowledge stemmed from only a few episodes of anime from over the years. A person who enjoyed the privacy of herself, maybe a little too much. Nevertheless, she tried. “And we a-appreciate everything you’ve done, but don’t forget about yourself as well. This is as much your day as it is everyone else’s.”

“That is also true,” Toriel said, nodding. “I promise, come tomorrow, I shall enjoy the day.” Her glasses returned to the bridge of her snout. “Until then, I believe the downstairs bathroom is in need of a good clean.”

Beat. The girlfriends looked at each other, and Undyne had a grin on her face and a glint in her long, black pupil that said, _“Not it.”_

The doctor had her mouth open, wishing to protest, but all that came out was a sigh. “I’m on it…” Alphys slumped out the kitchen with her back seriously slouched, making no attempt to hide her feelings.

Undyne breathed easy, flicking a bead of sweat from her brow.

“And the main bathroom upstairs,” Toriel finished.

Too soon, Undyne realised too late. Too soon. She gazed with dread at the former queen of the Underground, who had a glint in her red eyes that said, _“I am the boss. The boss monster, to be more precise.”_

“Do not forget the sink, and the bathtub.” Toriel’s words followed the mighty warrior as she made her defeated exit into the hall and up one step at a time. “And the showerhead. And the mirror. Oh, and the—”

“I got it,” Undyne shouted from the top of the stairs. “I got it. Geez.”

Toriel chuckled as she glanced down at her list. An unexpected thought crossed her mind that drew her away from the many responsibilities that remained.

“I wonder how Gorey is getting along,” she said, then pulled out her phone, brought up the interface and found his number at the very top of the contact list. It wasn’t his fault his name began with an ‘A’. “I better give him a call.”

* * *

For a checkout operator working on Christmas Eve, being at the frontline of a supermarket was the equivalent of being at the frontline in war. The young, promising young man beeped the products through and stuffed them into the plastic bag brought by the customers. Behind them was a long line, and that line was going to be there for the rest of the day. Like a merry-go-round, the holiday songs span.

“That’ll be nine fifty five,” he said in a tone which attempted to sound cheery, thinly veiled over his annoyance.

Asgore handed over a ten dollar bill. The cashier wished, with a faux smile, the monster trio a Merry Christmas as he handed back forty five cents worth of change for it to be donated into the charity box.

“And a happy New Year,” Papyrus replied as himself, his former king, and his brother exited the store sheer seconds before the first sound of Slade’s _Merry Christmas Everybody_ escaped the speakers for the sixth time that day, much to the dismay of the clerk.

The high-street teemed with life, both humans and monsters alike, the rumbling of many feet on the cleared paths and the thumping of a brass band from the centre played by aged men and women in black coats and black bowler hats.

There was Grillby in his usual vest, shirt and spectacles, no need for a coat, he was warm enough. A few people were huddled around him though. Snowdrake and family hopped past, back in their element, especially his mom.

The air, cold and crisp, failed to dither the skeletons with their lack of skin, and the goat with his healthy pelt of fur, although he still wore a festive sweater – a corny one at that. Asgore lugged a few carrier bags, all from his personal collection in which he reused on every shopping trip, as did Sans and Papyrus.

“Sans, did you really need to leave all your Christmas shopping to the last minute?” Papyrus implored as they moved down the street.

“Of course I did,” Sans answered, nodding. “Don’t you remember all the Christmas movies we blitzed? The irresponsible guy leaves somethin’ to the last second and it always turns out to be the best Christmas ever without any long-lasting repercussions. Like Arnie in that one movie.”

Papyrus asked, “Which one?”

“The one where he ran around and grunted a lot.”

“Oh, of course.” Papyrus went to snap his fingers, but with his gloves he succeeded in a muffled pop. “ _Jingle All The Way_. A true classic.”

The three passed an electronics store; the televisions crammed against the window were all synchronised to the same channel. A news anchor with permed hair reported that an attempted raid on a local mall was foiled by the Shadowy Saviour, showing grainy, black and white CCTV footage of her (and only her) beating up bad guys, knocking out crooks and generally cleaning house. All the people arrested were reoffending crooks and were back in police custody having been thwarted from stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars in goods. Security personnel on the scene suffered only minor injuries, but all in all, no casualties. Now on to the weather.

“And, furthermore,” Papyrus continued, “I still can’t figure out how you got a job as a part-time stage elf.”

Sans looked down at the outfit he still had on, having come straight out from his shift. A green coat with green and white striped sleeves, with red and white striped tights, pointy black shoes and a green cone hat.

“I’m a natural in this role, apparently,” he said, shrugging and tipping his hat to the side, jingling the bells outfitted at the tips.

“Right, because you and elves have so much in common.” Papyrus sounded unconvinced. His words slavered thick with sarcasm, much to his brother’s lack of concern. “You’re both short… and that’s about it.”

Sans chuckled whilst wagging a finger. “Oh, don’t be so sure, my bro, my main dude.” He stopped to wink, much to his brother’s annoyance. “I do, indeed, possess a special aptitude.”

There was a pause as the three monsters strolled down the high-street. They passed the entrance to a toy shore that was having a last-minute sale; unsurprisingly, there was a queue forming out it. Papyrus remained quiet, waiting for his brother to share.

Sans continued, “It’s a rare, ancient art in which I am the king; it requires a sharp wit, and impeccable timing. I’m such a professional, I require no priming.”

“Out with it already,” Papyrus snapped, “And quit with the rhyming.”

“If you don’t fancy rhymes, shall I partake in some miming?”

Another of his brother’s chuckles fuelled Papyrus’s ire.

“Well,” he said, furrowing his creaseless brow, “aren’t you going to share it with us?”

“Where’s the fire?” Sans asked, shrugging and pretending to look around. “What’s the rush?”

Asgore, in front, rolled his eyes. Boys will be boys.

The taller of the two went red at the soundtrack of his life. He arms went slack and he faced the clear sky. He whined like an irritated child, “Asgore, tell him to stop. He’s being annoying!”

“You think I’m annoying you? You think I’m toying?” Sans turned to the king from the Underground, much to the lively delight of the bells outfitted to his headwear. “Hey, big fella, you think I’m actin’ weird?”

To which Asgore, giggling, replied, “You’re as warm and fuzzy as the hairs on my beard.” Paying little heed to the contrast in emotions portrayed by the skeletons, he glanced at their surroundings before rummaging around in one of his cloth bags. The inside smelled strongly of cinnamon, suggesting that Toriel had used it recently in one of her last-minute shopping dashes from last week. “Any more stores you’d like to visit next?”

Sans scratched a part of his head where his hat did not obscure. The lights in his peepers shot from window to window, scanning clothes, toys, and trinkets begging to be taken home. “So many to choose from, it’s got me perplexed.”

Papyrus, still red faced, went as straight and rigid as a statue. “No more rhymes and I mean it!”

Asgore pulled out a silver packet and offered it out. “Would anyone like a peanut?”

Papyrus screamed, earning himself a few wayward glances from those passing by.

Just then Asgore’s phone, stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, vibrated.

_~Doot doot dooooooot, do-do-do doot do-doooooot~_

_~Doot doot dooooooot, do-do-do doot do-dooooooooot~_

He recognised the ringtone as his own theme song, _Bergentrückung_. After putting the peanuts back and shifting all the bags into one hand, he fished his phone out. Toriel’s likeliness and name shone bright and bold on the display, above the _answer_ and _decline_ buttons.

He pressed answer and brought it to his ear. “Howdy, Tori,” he greeted, remembering to smile. “There’s something we forgot, isn’t there?”

His wife’s voice came in loud and clear: “Not this time, Gorey. I was simply calling to check on you. The streets can be busy at this time.”

“We’re doing great – almost got everything we need. You just missed an amusing rhyme-off the boys and I just had.”

“A rhyme-off, you say?” Toriel asked. “I hope nobody is getting too mad.”

“I heard that,” Papyrus interjected, his voice small.

Asgore moved to the side to make way for a crowd of shoppers. “Anyway, we just have one more shop or two to check.” His eyes flashed with remembrance. “By the way, Papyrus got to meet the greatest guy in the world. I need to send you the picture.”

Sans glanced at the contents of his bag. He bounced it a bit, feeling it sag.

“Maybe I should’ve gotten that fleece…” Sans remarked, saying his peace.

Papyrus ran his gloved hand down his face. “Oh, wonderful, now you’re rhyming with the descriptive text. Whatever will you think of next?”

He froze, realising he had just thrown his brother a bone which will be lorded over him until they were dust.

“Hey, that was a good one!” Sans said, but Papyrus crossed his arms and looked away. “Hey, c’mon pal, my funny bone got hit.”

“You can be real lousy sometimes, you little piece of mouldy spaghetti.”

“I’m… actually glad you didn’t rhyme that time, bro…” Another crowd of shoppers urged the monsters forward. “C’mon, you guys, better go with the flow.”

* * *

After hanging up, Toriel kept her phone in hand and her eyes on the screen. She waited. Fifteen seconds later, the screen went black. Five seconds afterwards, it flashed to life with a received text message. Toriel wasted no time in thumbing the notification and up appeared the picture.

Her lips formed an amused grin. Giggling, she moved into the hallway and called for Undyne and Alphys to look at the picture sent.

It was Papyrus sat on the lap of a mall Santa. Papyrus is smiling, but the poor sap playing Santa – his fake beard askew – had the oddest look upon his face.


	5. Gonna find out who's Naughty and Nice

With the snow fresh upon the ground and school out until next year, what better things for children to do than play in the park? Snow rustled and fell from trees. A cold, clean scent invaded every follicle of air. All around, children descended on sleighs down the slopes, the lake became frozen enough to safely skate on, mounds provided excellent cover against incoming snowballs, and the abundance of snow allowed for the construction of snowmen. Their cheers and laughs reached the sky and filled the hearts of those who heard them.

"Man, why do I get the hardest job?"

Monster Kid, literally putting his back into it, huffed and panted as he lugged an oversized snowball, almost as big as he was, across the buried flat which other kids were playing soccer on months ago in the Summer heat. He had on a sleeveless coat, pants, a thick pair of boots, and a red scarf (fashioned after his role model) wrapped around his neck.

"Come on," he said aloud. "Almost…" With the final effort, he managed to roll in over once more. "There."

The monster rested against the ball, panting his lungs out. Beside him, Frisk was sweating under their many layers of clothing, including a brown coat, a blue and red woolly hat, a red scarf and red gloves as they rolled their own snowball, smaller than his.

After getting his breath back, MK said to them, "Yo, next time, your bro's doing the heavy work."

He turned his head around the other way to the third member of their little party, who stood by innocently, holding the smallest snowball in his arms. Despite his pelt, Asriel was dressed in a blue and yellow hat, a red coat and yellow gloves. For the winter, warm woolly socks and waterproof boots were in order.

"Mine's already done," Asriel announced. As he approached, his steps were wide and comical. He nearly slipped several times, almost losing his work in one encapsulating blunder. "I don't know how you can walk in these things, Frisk."

Frisk shrugged. Practice, they guessed.

One after the other, the three kids set the spheres one on top of the other from biggest to smallest. First the body, then the head. The shape of their snowman was complete, now all it needed was some features. The kids had some resting on a nearby hot-rod red sled: a pale carrot, a few speckled buttons, a pair of tattered aviator sunglasses, a moth-eaten scarf and a hat straight out of the fifties. After putting them in place, the cool snowman had a button smile, a long, orange nose and a neat pair of shades. A quick search around a nearby tree turned up a couple of sticks that would work nicely for limbs.

The children took a step back, admiring their work. Out in the cold, the strain on their nimble bodies and the sweat under their hats felt justified tenfold. With snowmen, even with one as shoddy as theirs, there was a strange sense of pride. It wasn't the success which made it sweet, but the effort put into it.

Asriel smiled and nodded, liking what he and his friends had accomplished.

Frisk commented on how much of a cool snowman he was, unless they were calling the snowman a snowwoman, or a snowperson. A snowhuman or a snowmonster? Frisk don't discriminate.

"Let's stick with snowman, and, man, 'cool' don't cut it," Monster Kid remarked, swaging to the side in a hip pose, wagging his tail in the process. "This is one bad snowman. Bad. Bad to the bone!"

Frisk jumped on his remark, calling this snowman the baddest in all the land.

The smile slowly faded from Asriel's lips. MK's tumultuous cries were drowned out as that word echoed in his mind.

_Bad… bad… bad… bad… bad… bad… bad… bad_

_Asriel… bad… Asriel… bad… Asriel… bad… Asriel… Asriel…_

_Asriel… Earth… Asriel… Earth… to Asriel…_

_Earth to Asriel… Earth to Asriel…_

"Yo, Earth to Asriel."

A hand waving in front of his face was the first thing Asriel saw when he regained his senses. He gazed with a blank look at Frisk and Monster Kid, and they gazed back equally puzzled.

"We were asking what you thought about it," MK said, concerned. If both he and Frisk had any eagerness to hear Asriel's opinion, it was gone.

Asriel switched back and forth between his friends and their chilly creation. From the look on the snowman's goofy and uneven smile, he also appeared interested in what Asriel had to say. Such a wide grin and dark eyes reminded him a little of Sans the skeleton, or Papyrus.

"It's, uh, it's cool," he stammered before pulling the corners of his mouth up, faking the best smile he could muster. "I-I mean, it's bad. Yeah, it's bad! Bad as in good, right?" He gave two thumbs up, only for Frisk and MK to remain motionless. "R-right, it's bad. Yeah."

Monster Kid's expression remained blank until an eyebrow raised. "Uh, dude, are you alright?" he asked.

"Y-yeah, totally! Never been better."

Frisk crossed their arms and asked if he was sure about that.

"I'm fine, honest," assured Asriel with a hand wave, making a poor excuse of hiding his worries. "I just drifted off for a sec, that's all."

Frisk leaned closer, so close that they almost touched nose tips, and interrogated their brother with the stern, gritted expression on their face alone. The determined human asked whether he had another Flowey nightmare recently.

"What? No, no!" Asriel shook his head hard, almost slapping Frisk with his ears. "I've haven't dreamt about him in ages."

Frisk puckered their frown. That time, his tone sounded surprisingly genuine. They decided to lay off it for now, but vowed to reach the bottom of this eventually. For now, they tugged up the corner of their sleeve and checked a watch. Oh, look at the time, it's coming up to lunch.

The trio waved goodbye to their frosty friend before beginning their little trek home, the sleigh trailing behind them. In this crazy world where both humans and monsters roam, it probably wouldn't have been absurd to believe that this snowman could have come to live, especially since there actually existed a living snowman in the world. Frisk still kept the piece in their freezer at home. They took it on vacation some months back.

Along the way, they talked.

"Yo," MK began, "what'd'ya think you two will get tomorrow?"

Asriel shot a look at his friend and appeared ready to say something, but only a mumble escaped.

Frisk, on the other hand, spoke their mind. There was this sweet Lego set they wanted, but they would only get it if they've been good enough. This earned the human a tiny smile and giggle from their brother; he knew exactly what Frisk would unwrap come Christmas.

"Man, I'd hate to be my sister," MK said. "She's always pulling—" he fell flat on his face, immediately got up, and continued while the snow streaked down him, acting like nothing happened "—pranks and stuff, and calling me names. She'll be on Santa's naughty list for sure."

Those words struck Asriel stone cold in his tracks. Two words, meaningless apart, but together, enough to paint a thousand pictures.

_Naughty list… naughty list… naughty list… naughty list…_

_Naughty… naughty… naughty… naughty…_

Monster Kid continued, "'Sides, Frisk, you ain't got a bad bone in ya, right Asriel?" He waited for an answer. Silence followed. "Asriel?"

Frisk and MK turned to find Asriel no longer there. He was gone. Before they could panic, a quick glance to the ground revealed his trail, leading through a nearby shallow copse. The two quickly followed, fearing the worst. They dodged and slalomed through the lanky trees until they made it out the other side and there, on a collapsed log at the peak of a small hill, the goat boy sat, seemingly staring out at the blanketed horizon. Frisk and MK approached, hasty but cautious.

"Yo, Asriel," Monster Kid said as he slowed down. "What's up? Why'd you disappear on us?"

Asriel sighed, breathing out a cloud of white. "I'm sorry, it… it's nothing, really…"

Frisk brushed away some snow and took a seat beside their brother, all while telling him that the ' _nothing_ ' was ' _something_ ' if it was bothering him this bad. Asriel could talk to them about anything, Frisk assured him.

Asriel glanced at Frisk for a brief moment, but struggled to make eye contact. "It's nothing," he said unconvincingly. "It's… it's just something stupid…"

"You know what's stupid?" Monster Kid began after brushing snow away with his tail and sitting down on the opposite side. "Hatin' someone just for being who they are. I know, I've been there myself." _One of the reasons why I ditched Undyne as my hero._ "You know what else is stupid? Keeping things buggin' ya bottled up. Talk to us, we'll be cool about it."

Asriel remained silence for the longest time. Then, with a meek voice and glancing back and forth between the two, he asked, "Promise not to laugh?"

At first, Frisk and MK said nothing, but gave knowing smiles. Frisk crossed their finger over their heart and Monster Kid added immediately after: "And hope to die."

Asriel took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "For the… last night, I had this dream." He stopped and squinted his eyes, expecting their promise broken all because he was about to gush all over them over a dumb dream. "Not about Flowey. Not about him, though."

"What about then?" Monster Kid pursued.

"I'm… in a line… to see…"

"To see who?"

He bit his lip and quietly said, "Santa."

Again, Asriel stopped and waited, but the expected laughter did not arrive. Although, the corners of MK's mouth did rise slightly before being suppressed. No laughing. Cross his heart and hope to die, he promised.

Feeling brave, Asriel continued without being prompt to. "I'm in his workshop and he's sitting at this really tall desk, like a judge, and he has these two lists. One by one, each kid in front of me walks up to Santa and they all get presents. So, I'm at the back of this line, and… I'm getting closer to meeting him… I'm excited, but also a little scared…"

Frisk remained silent. Before, some niggling feeling in their gut wanted them to chuckle, but now, they were glad they fought it. They had a feeling – this undeniable feeling – this was leading to one of _those_ places.

Asriel remembered the dream so vividly. The room, Santa's workshop, was so warm and inviting with a nice fire and displays of toys; tinsel around the chair rails, stockings above the fireplace, snow globes on the mantle, and a tree in the corner; the sweet scent of cinnamon, mince pie and gingerbread all around. Santa was so jolly, cheerful and laughing from atop his desk, treating each child with an equal measure of love.

"And then," Asriel continued, "it's my turn. I stand before Santa and I realise I'm the only kid left. The room goes all dark and I'm in this spotlight. He asks for my name. I tell him it and then he starts skimming through the lists. I'm scared because I don't know which one I'm on."

Asriel was twiddling his thumbs with rising tension, working up the courage to go on, remembering the look of curious concentration on the jolly man's face as he switched from one list to the other, unable to tell from down below which was naughty and which was nice. Frisk was about to say that he did not need to go on before his lips moved.

"Suddenly, Santa says that I'm not on either of these lists. He then reaches under his desk and pulls out another scroll. He says… he says…" He looked down, the white snow around his boots did nothing to ease his mind. "My deeds were enough to warrant their own…"

Asriel stopped to swallow the dam forming in his throat, knowing he neared the worst part. Frisk went to stop him, tell him that he did not need to go on if he didn't want to, but he continued regardless.

"He dropped the list and it rolls to the floor and then keeps going all the way out the room…" His breath began to quiver. "I look at the list… and…" The quivering degraded further, reaching a limit which cracked his voice. He held his forehead in his hands. "It's every single bad thing I ever did… as…"

"As…" Monster Kid whispered. "The flower?"

Without looking up, Asriel sniffed and nodded. Each individual bullet point was burned into his memory:

**_Tricked Whimsum into hurting his friends._ **

**_Destroyed Aaron's dreams_ **

**_Murdered your father, Asgore_ **

**_Drove your mother, Toriel, to end her own life_ **

**_Tricked the Royal Guard Captain, Undyne, into killing several innocent citizens_ **

**_Ripped a harmless skeleton, Papyrus, apart_ **

**_Murdered Dogaressa before Dogamy's eyes, and laughed at his pain_ **

**_Attempted murder on sibling, Frisk_ **

Each individual bullet point he remembered perfectly.

"It was the worst list," he said, "and Santa told me there was nobody worse than me. That I was… evil. The evilest boy in the world."

The nightmare returned to his mind, frame by frame etched with perfect clarity. He could no longer hear himself telling the story, or command his tongue. His lips moved as if possessed, narrating it scene by scene as it played out before his eyes. He was not sitting in a snowy field, surrounded by his friends, but standing before Saint Nick himself, being condemned.

_"M-Mister Santa, please," Asriel pleaded. "I'm-I'm not Flowey anymore! I'm not that person anymore! I—"_

_"Silence," Santa boomed from atop his cliff face of a desk, growing taller every second. "You may think you have undone the pain you caused, but you can never hope to erase the taint from your soul. Coal is too good for the likes of you. There's only one place for a wickedness such as yours!"_

_Santa extended upwards into the circle of light above before vanishing into the dark, leaving Asriel there alone. He gazed mortified upwards at the light, realising he had seen it once before in his life._

_Asriel cried into the darkness. "I'm not evil! I'm not evil!" The tears prickled his eyes, then ran down his cheeks._

_Before he knew it, he was stood in the one place too awfully familiar. The glimpse of light above; the walls of black coal all around him. Asriel found golden flowers swimming around his ankles._

_Santa echoed from above and beyond. "This is where you belong."_

_The little boy began to sink into the bed. Those petal brushed against his knees, then his waist, then his torso, consuming him piece by piece._

_"I'm not Flowey anymore!" He gazed upwards, catching those final rays of light before the flowers eclipsed them. His own white hands turned green and leafy. "I'm Asriel. I'm Asriel Dreemurr!"_

_He slammed his eyelids shut and screamed as oblivion consumed him:_

_"I'M ASRIEL DREEMURR!"_

Strong, frantic hands shook him. Young Asriel escaped his nightmare to find himself pressed against Frisk's coat, staining it with streams of hot tears. He began to sob, letting it all out while Frisk patted his back and cooed that the dream was over.

"Whoa, dude. That was… heavy," MK remarked, then realised how insensitive it made him look. He hopped off the log and comforted the crying child. "Hey, hey now, don't cry," he said softly. "It was only a dream, nothing to be sad about."

Still pressed against his sibling's coat, Asriel cried, "Frisk, what if I am evil? What if there really is an evil list? I don't wanna be on the evil list." He sniffed. "I'm not a bad person. I don't wanna be _him_ anymore. I just wanna be me. I wanna be good from now on."

Frisk assured Asriel that he had nothing to worry about.

It failed to quell his fears. He pushed away and slouched deep, resting his forearms on his lap. "What if Santa really does hate me? What if I he doesn't care about me? Maybe he already hates me because I'm…" He closed his eyes. "Because I'm a monster."

"Okay, now you're talking trash, dude," Monster Kid replied, feeling that some tough love was in order. "It don't matter who you are or what you are, Santa cares for everyone. He ain't gonna put you on the naughty list."

Frisk agreed with their friend and gently took their brother by the shoulders and told him that Santa Claus will understand. Flowey was the one who did all those bad things, and all that was in the past. Asriel was who he was today, and had done nothing wrong. They reminded him that he was the one who found that great gift for Mom, and helped Alphys and Undyne with putting up decorations at their house. He's a good person, and Santa will see that.

After wiping away once more at his cheeks, Asriel's mood lifted a shade. "Th-thanks, Frisk," he said, quivering, pulling a smile that bore great doubt. "I just need a few minutes…"

That was alright, they had a little time to spare. It served as valuable minutes for Frisk – who had made tough decisions both underground and overground – to contemplate on what could very well be their last massive choice of that year:

Should they tell him that Santa was not real, or shouldn't they?


	6. Silent Night

Night had fallen by four in the afternoon. Longer nights meant more time for Santa, more time meant more crooks to catch; still, given the size of the world and the number of people on it, seeing to every misdemeanour was impossible, even for Saint Nick. For a man who was believed to deliver presents to every household in just one night, he still couldn't deliver to both Beijing and Toronto at the same time.

His exploits had taken him to South America, where many forgotten people would find one present waiting for them tomorrow morning, and four hoodlums lay unconscious in the dazzle of a police cruiser. The little gang had attempted to break into a wealthy home while the owners were away and score themselves some goodies too expensive for their pay checks. Too bad they weren't smart enough to dodge the silent alarm. The stolen possessions on their persons were a dead giveaway, along with loaded handguns and a few golden teeth missing from the ring-leader. The incident would remain a mystery; another unsolved case in the world of conspiracy. Before the case would be dropped many years down the road, vigilantism would be deemed the likeliest reason.

As for the vigilante himself, he was already two thousand miles north.

Cold, biting wind lashed across his plump, brazen cheeks. He had always been used to the cold, yet it felt harsher on that Christmas Eve night.

"My, my, sir," Albert appeared on a small monitor built into the dashboard, "I've never seen you that harsh on petty thugs since the days of World War Two. They'll be spending their Christmas in intensive care." He had a narrow, noble face with two pointy ears, greying hair parted on the right, and wore a shirt, vest, and tie.

Santa kept his eyes locked straight ahead. The reading on the dials ticked away contently on his dashboard. On his radar, he himself appeared as the green dot in the centre of the grid, and inside an outline of the Americas. Every few moments, a red dot would appear and persist for either a few seconds or minutes before fading out, indicating the exact location of a crime. It became sort of an art choosing which crimes to intervene with and which to regrettably let go. If he could, he would like each and every Christmas to be crime-free, but he – even with his legendary moniker – was still just one man.

He had learned from experience and with dealing with plenty of unsavoury characters that things were rarely ever straight forward. A lot of crimes were rumbled before they even began, and plenty more to reach fruition are dealt with either local law enforcement or – on a humorous note – the crook's own stupidity. Others would escape the net only to be caught later, or be foolish enough to jump into another net thinking they could escape it a second time.

The crooks whom were going to see through with their intent, not be undone by the police or their own dumbness, and were guaranteed to swim the net time and time again, that was when the jolly fat man showed his not-so-jolly side.

Albert, with his profound accent, continued: "If I didn't know any better, I'd say this has something to do with the mall last night."

"Call it a wild hunch, Albert," Santa answered. "I know trouble when I see it. That woman wasn't with those other blokes, yet she knew I was going to be there. How? Why, I wonder?"

"In that case, this new piece of information might interest you." Santa perked his ears up at what his assistant was about to say. "I've checked with dozens of old records, and if my findings are correct, it may be possible that a burial tomb is located under that mall."

"A tomb, you say?"

"Well, that and an Indian burial ground, and possibly a bottomless pit, but, yes, a tomb. Belonging to the mages of old."

The saint's thoughts returned to last night, to her spectral form, her cloak, and the bag she carried.

The bag.

Santa mused, "I might be dealing with a rare breed of naughty here."

The argument of what made people good, bad, or somewhere in-between still baffled Santa Claus to that very night. He had witnessed children sweet and innocent one year turn vile and repugnant the next; those who disgraced his naughty list for five years running one day woke up like they were possessed by different people who made every effort possible to change their ways. Outside influences played a major role in a child's development, but still, there were others who could easily be argued as being born the way they were. Nature versus nurture, as the expression goes.

"A rarer breed than Krampus?" Albert asked.

Santa shrugged. "He's not such a bad lad once you get to know him."

"Does that mean you'll be returning his possessions, sir? They frighten the cleaners enough as it is."

Santa knew exactly the possessions in question; one iron ankle shackle and chain, a piece of horn and five demonic teeth. "Best give it another decade or two," he decided.

Albert could be both seen and heard labouring a sigh. "As you wish, sir."

Another crime looked like it was about to pop up, followed by two more red dots.

"By the way, did you find anything on those toys she turned?"

The butler reached behind the scene to a stack of papers. He flicked through them. "We've ran both the teddy and the Martian toy," he said, "under every single test." The flick as he turned through the pages was audible through the speaker and against the air. "All the results came back negative. Whatever magic that inhibited them has completely vanished without a trace. They're just back to being harmless toys."

"I see. Any more sightings of her?" the saint asked.

Albert looked away to skim through the massive array of camera feeds from all across the world; London, England; Tokyo, Japan; Moscow, Russia; Washington D.C, United States of America; Stockholm, Sweden; Oslo, Norway; Baku, Azerbaijan; Quito, Ecuador; Panama City, Panama; Harare, Zimbabwe; miles of city landscapes, scanning millions upon millions of faces, and yet none of them returned as Prophet.

"Nothing yet, sir," he answered. Santa Claus pulled the reins slightly to the right, altering his course. The radar turned with him. "If you're not feeling one-hundred percent, then might I suggest an early night to clear your head?"

The hairs on Santa's chin rustled in the breeze as he shook his head. "Perish the thought, Albert. I've never missed a Christmas Eve in my life and I'll be darned if I start now, especially with someone like this Prophet on the loose."

So much preyed on his mind: could he stop this woman before she completed her scheme? Could he make Christmas happy for as many people as possible this year? Would he still be Santa Claus at the end of this trifle? Would he still be alive?

And he still hadn't found that missing sleeping grenade yet.

A new, red dot flashed not too far from the central, green dot. Albert picked up on it without another word of dispute:

"In that case, there's a jewellery store robbery happening not too far from your location, down in Austin. The silly buggers have tripped the alarm; police are already on the way, but you might fancy a little vi – hold on a second!"

Santa swung to the screen to find his loyal friend gazing away, guided by one of the many video feeds. His face was blank, brow furrowed with stark recognition.

With a hard pull on the reins, the sleigh came to a halt. "Talk to me, Albert," he said, staring at his butler. "Have you found her?"

Albert glanced at his master before staring back at the screen. "On the contrary, sir, I believe she's found me. She's at a nearby research facility – I'm marking it on your radar."

After examining the fresh marker on the dash, Santa snapped the reins and headed in that direction. "How has she found you?" he asked. "What's she doing?"

"She's… looking straight at the camera."

From Albert's end, on a single monitor, the lady known only as Prophet sat casually on a laboratory top; her mask fixated purely on the camera as if looking directly at Santa's tech support. It was her: same white mask and same red cloak. She waved in a cocky manner by wiggling her fingers. She probably said hello, but it was impossible to tell. After which, she glanced down at her wrist and checked the time.

A few seconds later, she waved a salute before hopping off the bench and walking out of view.

"I've just lost her," Albert said as he reached for the controls.

"I'm almost there!" Santa pushed his vehicle to its limits, gripping the leathers tighter than ever. Particles froze and glistened around him. "Don't lose sight of her."

Albert mashed the buttons, switching between every camera within the complex. He found workstations abandoned for the holidays, rows of cubicles drowned in blackness and shadows, hallways barren of life, but nothing was moving. He was speechless.

Santa slowed to a crawl, having reached his destination. "Made it." Below, the complex stood tall and dark without a single white window; the surrounding street lights made it glimmer like chiselled jet. He made circles around the building, searching for any signs of forced entry, any familiar shapes through the glass, or any movement whatsoever. "Albert, give me something."

Each change of the camera revealed nothing. Albert became more wary with each flicker of static, afraid he might get jump scared like that popular indie game that came out a few years back.

A rapid beeping shrieked from his dashboard with a bright, red flash.

One of the structure's windows shattered. No thoughts, just action. Santa barrelled sharply to the left, twisting just in time to dodge an incoming projectile. The rocket zipped past, leaving a contrail of smoke, before exploding in the sky, far from anyone or anything.

"What was that, sir?" Albert inquired from his side. The cameras revealed nothing. "Have you found her?"

"On the contrary, my friend," Santa echoed Albert's prior words as he glanced starboard side. From the open pane, a vehicle zoomed out into the distance. He cracked the reins. "I believe she found me."


	7. Right Down Santa Claus Lane

In his sights, a distance away, Santa gave chase to what could only be described as a flying motorbike. Sleek and black; the perfect colour to blend into the night, complete with two thrusters of blue flames, a visor to shield the rider, and a box mounted on the back, no doubt full of whatever she took. The rider's red cloak trailed behind her, and her white mask was barely visible from behind the tinted glass.

"You're not the only one with a fancy ride," Prophet heckled at him from through the receiver on his dashboard. "You know, I think this baby would look better in hot-rod red, but I didn't wanna make you jealous."

Two more missiles launched out from both sides of the bike and made straight for Santa. He snapped the leathers, dodging them before bursting forward as they turned back in his rear-view mirrors.

"Splendid," he said with a dollop of sarcasm. "Heat-seeking." And all the way up in the December sky, there were very few heat sources to latch on to. As the rockets neared, Santa took one hand off the reins to flick a switch.

From out the sleigh's back, two dozen flares launched outward in rapid succession. It helped to be prepared for any situation. The missiles quivered as they lost their target, careened into the flares and exploded.

Santa, having lost Prophet in the confusion, switched the radar from wide-scale to the imminent area, quickly spotting a single dot coming in fast toward his left portside. He twisted his head around just in time as a barrel extended from out the bike's single headlight and out pounded a volley of gunfire. Santa swooped down, dodging most of the fire except for a few bullets which blemished the paint.

Prophet zoomed past, the engine reached a powerful crescendo as it pasted the aged ears of her enemy. Her synthetic voice continued to jest from out his dash: "C'mon, Saint Nicholas. You gonna chase me or what?"

Those words, the way she said them, hardly sat well with the saint of Christmas. They sounded like they were trying to bait him, to lure him into an obvious trap. For the little he knew of her, there was no doubt that something sinister lay ahead. Unfortunately for him, there was too much at stake. Santa snapped on his reins and hoped to avoid biting on the hook.

The thrusters on Prophet's bike made her a clear target as both she and he raced across the sky. She'd be mistaken for a shooting star by a few eager star chasers.

A small compartment opened where the rear licence plate would be and out hovered a stream of grey spheres. Glints of white appeared on all sides, shapes like spikes.

Albert's calm butler voice proved unsuited to the matter at hand: "Sir, scanners of detecting large quantities of explosive material packed in each of those." Santa moved out from the trajectory of the first barrage and felt the heat of the explosions lick his face. "I trust I don't need to inform you that touching one of those is bad business."

Nope, he didn't. Mines came in high and low, dispersing however erratic Prophet flew. Santa went high and low and side to side, avoiding the mines. Every wayward blast seemed to char his features; he had to feel his beard and eyebrows to make sure he still had them.

Prophet swooped straight down to a loud roar of the engine. Santa followed, breaking through the clouds to a world of white down below. The cityscape of Detroit, bright in golden orange light, neared hard and fast. Prophet showed no signs of slowing down as she dropped toward those car-choked lanes.

At the last second, she pulled up and the thrusters folded seamlessly into the sides. Rubber met tarmac and she sped off, slaloming between vehicles big and small.

Santa snapped a toggle. The open sides of his sleigh extended up and over into a box shape along with six panes of glass; his snapping, jingling reins zipped away and a steering wheel unfolded into his hands, with three pedals below and a gearstick to his left; instead of runners crashing against hard road, thick rubber and shock absorbers bared the brunt of the impact. Santa Claus, with wheel in hand, threw the manual transmission into fifth gear and stomped on the gas, continuing this chase under the guise of a red hummer.

"Don't tell me you're still using that model," Albert said, bringing his face closer to the screen.

Santa sounded calm as he switched lanes, avoiding a van. "It's spacious. And feels good to drive."

"And expensive, sir."

The black motorbike swerved in and out of the cars, sometimes into the oncoming lanes. Meanwhile, she laughed, showing no fear as she sped across junctions and red lights. She burned rubber to a cacophony of horns and yells of 'Maniac!', 'Road hog!', 'Speed freak!', 'Lunatic!' and a few too obscene to be included in this Christmas story.

Santa, while manning the larger vehicle, had the know-how and the knowledge of Detroit's roads to keep up. No matter how hard she tried to lose him, there was always a shortcut he could take to shorten the gap; a detour through an alley, an alternate route down a side lane.

The motorbike skidded into a multi-storey parking lot, snapping through the dividing barrier; the hummer followed past the smashed gate, his side window rolled down so the driver could flick a coin into the machine slot. He followed her as she made skid marks going up, each screech of rubber against floor multiplied within the boxy interior. Prophet rose through the platforms, to the first floor, then the second, then the third. Up, up and up they ascended and not a single space to be found.

They reached the upmost floor to biting cold. The moon gazed down like a dead eye. After the first stretch and the turn, the final stretch remained. The cement barrier lay ahead, yet Prophet gunned it at full speed, not allowing something so simple to stop her. The contrail of a rocket zoomed from out the bike and turned the wall into debris. The boom of the blast and the rain of wreckage died to the collective wail of car alarms.

A few bystanders, who had dove for covered and were unharmed, watched with hearts racing and breaths rapid as the bike drove off the end along with the gas guzzler. They rushed to the edge in time to find the two taking flight through the gaps in the skyscrapers.

One of the witnesses whispered under his breath, "This word ain't sane no more."

Santa kept his eyes focused as Prophet's erratic swaying tried to give him the slip. He followed as she ascended higher into the night and further across the States. She darted into a cloud and vanished on the radar. Not wanting to give up, he followed and popped out the other side, finding her no longer in front.

"Sir, are you alright?" Albert asked.

"She's gone, Albert," he confessed. "I had the devil right in my sights and I lost her."

Albert inhaled to speak his mind, only to be cut off by the masked voice:

"Try narrowing your parameters, old man. A guy like you should have no problem with that."

Santa was still, yet his eyes rolled around in his skill. Scanning the stars in case one of them shot down on him. Next to the radar was a dial to either widen or shorten the range. He turned it back, zooming the range closer to the green dot in the centre.

100 metres.

100 feet.

50 feet.

25 feet.

10 feet.

At that distance, just visible under the middle dot, the brim of a red hostile peeked from out the side.

Santa shot a look over the side too late. A blur of jet and scarlet swooped out from below.

She laughed all the way. "Oldest trick in the book," she jested. "But nowhere near as old as you."

No more than thirty feet ahead, Prophet performed cartwheels on her jet-propelled bike, flipping end over end in mid-air, laughing like mad. Whatever signs of running away existed before simply weren't there anymore.

Paused in place, Santa watched. He had her right where he wanted, had her caught; however, a bad feeling told him he was nowhere close.

"That was fun," Prophet went on after stopping her dizzying cyclones. "And the perfect way to get your guard down."

Santa's brow twitched. _My guard? I should've known…_

Prophet released the throttle and held her hand up. "Only a few hours until Christmas is mine." That hand gripped a detonator. The button was visible beneath the thumb. "With any luck, you'll still be around to see it."

One click later, the underside of the sleigh jolted in an explosion and began to plummet in a trail of black smoke back down to Earth. The entire dashboard flashed a blinding red. Santa pulled tight, but was unable to stop his downward spiral.

"Sir, ar…ou…oka…?" Albert's voice sputtered between cracks of static. "Sir?" More static. "Sir!" Static. Then nothing.

The clouds parted to the snowy earth and a barren, black flat of the ocean. The ground neared fast. The dials before him ticking down and spinning like mad.

Mayday. Mayday. In December.

* * *

The holding of drawn, painted and shaded anime arms. The widening of animated eyes five times larger than on any average human. Hundreds of hours of writing, storyboards, drawing, character developing, painting, and voice-acting had built up to this moment.

The long, blue haired, angsty, perpetually handsome boy held the long, purple haired, angsty, perpetually beautiful girl and whispered a sentence in Japanese neither spectator could understand.

The subtitles aided them: _You're more than a cousin to me._

Undyne was still; a handful of popcorn hung inches from her toothy mouth. The frozen feeling worsened as the cousins looked into each other's eyes, paused, and then went to first base. A wet sniff drew her right eye to the girlfriend beside her. A tissue pressed against her yellow cheeks.

The proud commander slammed her tub on the coffee table, spilling a few flakes. "There's no way you're finding this romantic, Alphys," she insisted.

Alphys buried her face in her hanky, pushing her spectacles up to her brow. "I'm sorry," she blubbered, struggling to get the words out. "It's s-so beautiful…"

"Get outta here!" Undyne had an arm outstretched toward the TV. "It's super awkward – that's what it is! It would be like if Papyrus started dating his brother. You wouldn't find that attractive, would you?"

The doctor looked up from the handkerchief, doing so with a speed in which Undyne found suspicious. The tears had stopped as quickly as turning the value on a faucet.

"Um…" Alphys glanced toward an empty corner of the room. "…No?"

Undyne's arms went akimbo. "Seriously, Alphys?"

"I didn't say n-nothing."

Extra attention was paid to the bead of sweat rolling down Alphys's brow.

"But you're thinking about it, right?" Undyne insisted.

"I am n-not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

A sly grin perked on Undyne's lips. "Admit it: you ship them, don't you?" she said to Alphys's increasing blush. Clear glass was nowhere near as transparent as she was. Undyne pointed across the room, toward the door. "If we were to look at your computer right now, are you certain we won't find any spicy Pap-slash-Sans or San-slash-pyrus fanfiction on there?"

A second bead of sweat melded with the first, creating one large blob that rolled down to her shirt collar. Alphys could only nod to ward off the inevitable, her words having left her.

Undyne clasped her knees, preparing to stand. "Alright, let's find—"

A massive crash from the backyard bumped everyone and everything off the ground momentarily for them to land in their exact same spots.

"What was that?" Alphys asked aloud as both she and her bae swung to the bi-fold door that was currently layered with curtains to keep the cold out. She huffed. "Probably Mettaton. He's been so busy pr-preparing his Christmas special that I didn't think he'd have time to play Secret Santa."

"I don't know. He likes to make a dramatic entrance, but that felt a little too dramatic." Undyne switched the TV off before the couple reached third base. Can't have whatever that was catching them watching such smut. "We better check it out."

As the two went to investigate, Alphys silently expressed her relief: her Sans/Papyrus fluffs were secure, as were her numerous Toriel/Asgore fics, Aaron/Washua, Grillby/Pyrope, Vulcan/Tsunderplane, Whimsun/Knight Knight, and some cute and fluffy Frisk/Asriel with a little added tickling.

The curtain was thrown aside; Undyne could make anything look epic. Buried in the four-foot thick snow lay a sleigh, nose down and smouldering. A large sack of goodies remained in the back. A few gifts had spilled out.

"What the heck?" Undyne garbed as she swung open the door and embraced the winter. She stepped out into the snow, soaking her thick woollen socks in the process. "What is this?"

Alphys remained by the door, hugging her exposed arms. "And where did it come from?"

"Hello down there!"

Looking up, Alphys and Undyne were struck stupid by what they saw. A jolly, overweight man in a red suit and hat, abseiling down with a parachute, waving down as he looked to land in the garden also.

"It would seem I've got myself in quite the pickle," he said. "Would you fine young ladies be so kind as to help a fella out?"

The two fine young ladies gazed at one another, amazed.

Undyne said, "Papyrus is gonna freak when he sees this…"


	8. Do you hear what I hear?

Should they tell him or should they not?

Should they tell him or should they not?

Should they tell him or should they not?

The meticulously clean carpet was in serious danger of forming a groove, as were the thick socks in danger of wearing out. Pacing back and forth in the hallway, the question rolled around and around in Frisk's headspace, accompanied by an invisible timer ticking down the hours, minutes, and seconds until tomorrow. Beside them was the door leading to the living room, where Asriel was catching up on his favourite show, which was saved on the box. Dad was with him, and Mom was checking over the preparations for the hundredth time.

Should they tell him or should they not?

Ten seconds was all Frisk needed to spill the beans. Ten seconds was all it would take to walk in there, confront their brother, and confess the truth about Santa.

Should they tell him or should they not?

They approached the door and paused outside. Illumination from the television seeped through the crack and ran a clear slice of rippling colours from their head to their feet. They could barely make out the millimetre of interior the gap allowed. The flicker of the TV. A hanging picture frame.

Should they tell him or should they not?

What were the pros of telling Asriel that Santa wasn't real? Well, for starters, he would stop worrying about being on the naughty list, enjoy the rest of the evening, and wake up come Christmas Day with the same boyish charm shared among the rest of the world regardless whether Kris Kringle existed or not.

Frisk's hand hovered over the door. The cartoon show could be heard, along with Asriel's laughter. Oh, man, how they loved that sound; his laugh had the perfect pitch; not too high, not too low; not too hard, not too soft; not too fast, not too slow; adorable enough to melt even the coldest hearts.

The cons? Young Asriel could lose his innocence; he might become depressed, which could manifest in anger, leading to him losing all trust with those around him; start misbehaving at school, skip his classes, turn to petty crime, start doing drugs, join a gang, and – don't get carried away, Frisk!

They grumbled, clenched their fingers then marched back down the hall. Their ten seconds had long since expired.

Frisk entered their bedroom. Two beds were budged up in both corners; the right one was theirs and the other was Asriel's. Both were extra plump and cosy with extra blankets and thicker duvets.

Lying on Asriel's bed, sank deep in the covers, was a laptop. His laptop. A single orange light gleamed from under the lid, indicating that it was still on. Something told the human that that computer held some much needed information. Of course, this was their brother's laptop, and using it would be a massive breach in their privacy.

Frisk checked the hall, hearing another faint, familiar, heart-warming laugh from the living room. Curiosity got the better of them.

Taking a seat on his bed, they turned the laptop toward them, opened it up and gave the power button a quick tap. White hairs poked out from beneath the keys. The screen booted up, awakening, revealing the last thing being watched: a ten minute video of some Irish guy playing a horror game. Frisk, taking care not to leave any traces, opened a new tab before bringing up the browser history.

They ran their deft finger down the right-hand side of the tracker pad, scrolling down the list.

_YouTube… YouTube… Facebook… YouTube… Some guys blog… Reddit… More YouTube… Tumblr… Oh, Archive Of Our Own!_

A-ha! Google searches.

_santas naughty list_

_how to be on santas naughty list_

_how to know if you are on santas naughty list_

_how to get off santas naughty list_

_can past lives carry over to the naughty list?_

A shrill wail vibrated through the building's foundations in three-second intervals, distracting the child from their sneaky task for a moment. It was the phone, and either Mom or Dad would answer it.

_can bad deeds in past lives carry over to naughty list_

_does santa see everything?_

_is santa a nice person?_

_is Santa a forgiving person?_

Frisk checked the amount of history from the top of the list to those searches. Asriel told both them and MK that he had the dream last night, but there was no way those Google searches were made from today. They looked to be from about a week ago, maybe two.

That little fibber…

Not to mention there were also several dozen hits on a DeviantArt account by the name of _BigGuy19720_. Frisk drew the cursor over the hits and chose one at random, ignoring Admiral Ackbar's warning from inside their head, and double clicked. The page was open for one second, and one second was still too long for Frisk's sensitive, unopened eyes. They couldn't close the tab fast enough, returning to the sanctuary of a paused video.

Frisk rubbed their eyes, still seeing the image behind them; the innocent Asriel Dreemurr wasn't innocent anymore.

They counteracted the poisonous imagery by clicking on another Deviantart account by the name of _Youwillneverseeme._ The recent photograph of a Jigglypuff in a Santa hat and fake beard helped greatly in removing the taint from their mind. Plugs don't get any more shameless than that, folks.

Just then, footsteps – large ones, belonging to King Dad – trundled toward them from down the hall.

Quickly, the human child closed the browser history window, slammed the lid, reset it back in its original position, then raced across the carpet to their bed, grabbed a book from the desk in the process.

There was a knock on the door as Asgore asked whether it was okay to enter. Frisk, after sitting back on their bed and opening the book, said he could come in. The door opened a shade and Asgore poked his horned head through.

"That was Alphys on the phone," he said. "She said they have a visitor at their house whom they would like us to meet. So get your stuff on and we'll head out in five, okay?"

Frisk answered with a thumbs up.

Asgore went to leave, stopped, and then looked back at his child. "Since when did you start reading the dictionary?" he asked.

They looked dumbfounded at the columns of words and meanings. Not only did they feel silly, but they also got to read its definition:

**Silly** _adjective_ **–lier, -liest 1** behaving in a foolish or childish manner **2** _old-fashioned_ unable to think sensibly, as if from a blow **3** _cricket_ (of a fielding position) near the batsman's wicket: _silly mid-off_ **4** _informal_ a foolish person

"If I didn't know any better," Asgore began, "I would say you grabbed that book and pretended to read it, and you were actually…" His bright eyes fell upon his son's bed. "Spying on your brother's laptop."

Frisk was as still as a statue, save for the vein pulsating on their neck, pumping their simmering blood.

**Simmer** _verb_ **1** to cook (food) gently at just below boiling point **2** (of violence or conflict) to threaten to break out: _simmering with resentment ever since the meeting_ **3** the state of simmering [perhaps imitative]

Asgore's gaze grew harder and harder, drilling deeper into his child, making their pulse quicken and their face turn red. It softened in an instant. "But that would just be silly," he said, perishing the thought with a wave of the hand. "Five minutes, Frisk."

The door closed with a gentle click and Frisk was left to read the definition of silly again.

* * *

Alphys led jolly Santa Claus to the living room. Outside, Undyne could be heard transporting the downed sleigh into the garage.

"This is awfully nice of you," Santa said as he rounded the sofa, "but you don't have to go through all this trouble for an old fella like myself."

"N-n-n-nonsense," Alphys insisted, still disbelieving that the actual Santa had landed in her garden; the real Saint Nick, and not Asgore in a red suit and a fake beard over his existing one. "It's no trouble at all. M-make yourself at home."

Santa inspected his surroundings. He was especially drawn to the Christmas tree in the corner, with a fashioned spearhead up top and stacks of presents below. Among the tiny mountain, one such gift was shaped suspiciously like a bone. He caught the tag attached to it:

**To: Undyne**

**From: Me**

"Such a nice house you have." Santa said. The sofa looked so comfy. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Not at all," Alphys insisted, and the man plopped himself down, his girth taking up two-thirds of the couch. "W-would you like me to take your coat?"

"Oh, that would be very nice." As Santa worked the golden buttons from the neck down, he said, "You're very kind, but I really should get cracking on fixing my sleigh; she's in quite a wreck."

Alphys stepped across the living room as Santa's coat opened. "L-leave your sleigh to me. I can fix anything," she said as she took his coat. "It'll be better than before. Just you… wait… and… see…"

Undyne entered the living room, brushing her hands together. "Sleigh's in the garage," she announced. "Neighbours asked what happened, and I told them that – whoa!"

The two ladies gawked, jaws on the floor. Underneath his iconic coat, Santa Claus had on a charcoal grey shirt and suspenders, but not his porcine frame. If he so much as tensed, he risked shredding that top against his six-pack and chiselled pecks. Those short sleeves, around arms which hoisted a sack of presents one day a year, were stretched tight against biceps and triceps as thick as whole turkeys, and large, round shoulders. Not even the cotton fibres at the back were safe against such muscle.

"If something the matter, ladies?" he asked at the sight of their agape traps and mesmerised gazes.

Undyne slapped her hand over Alphys's eyes.

"Oh, this." He tapped at the belly button trapped between defined belly muscles. "In my line of work, you don't exactly sit around and grow fat."

_Yes, you do!_ Undyne's inner voice screamed. _You're freaking Santa Claus! You work only one day a year. Your diet consists of milk and cookies._

Alphys, flustered, pushed her girlfriend's hand away. "F-f-f-f-fascinating. Fascinating, indeed." Her face was pure red. Of all the people to grow the hots for over the years – Asgore, Mettaton, then settling with Undyne – she never dreamed of throwing Santa into the mix. Age was only skin-deep. She imagined nestling into that chest, running her fingers against his six-pack, feelings those arms hold her as they – ahem!

Again, she snapped out of it, remembering how flustered she was when working on Mettaton's new body. Her words came out a stammer: "Uh, Ex-excuse me. Would you like something to eat? Maybe a drink?"

"I'm quite partial to tea and biscuits."

"Hey, uh, Santa," Undyne chimed in. "Would you mind if I make a call to a few friends. I bet they would love to meet you."

"I would love to meet your friends as well. As long as it's only a few and not the entire cavalry. I can't stand those blasted paparazzi."

* * *

Before she knew it, Undyne was alone in the kitchen, multitasking between preparing tea and snacks for their guest and making a phone call. She speed-dialled the first name that sprang to mind before budging the phone between her shoulder and head, bringing the receiver to her fin.

Before the first two rings were up, she had time to flick the kettle on, making sure it had water in to beforehand.

"Hyeh heh heh!" cackled the earpiece. "You have reached me, the great Papyrus. Please leave your message after the beep and I shall evaluate the importance of your urgency on a scale of three to seven."

A voice message? Most unusual, especially for him, Undyne wondered. But she supposed there was a first time for everything.

"Hey, dude, it's me," she began as she opened a cupboard and pulled out three porcelain cups. "You better get your bony butt to the phone soon becau—"

"A-ha, Undyne!" The boom that was Papyrus's voice startled her, almost making her drop everything. She caught the mugs and the phone before they could smash against the kitchen floor. "Nice to see you. Your voice, I mean. With my ears. Which I don't have."

Huffing a frustrated pant, Undyne planted the teacups down with a loud metallic bang on a tray before repositioning the phone in its place against her cheek. She slammed them down extra hard, making sure the fella on the other end heard it. The kettle symbolised her rising temper as faint wisps of steam escaped the spout.

"Papyrus, what's the point of having voicemail if you're just gonna answer anyway?" she demanded to know.

"Oh, that wasn't a recording: that was me. A machine cannot be entrusted to handle a matter as delicate as my voice. I did not expect you to call at this late hour."

She retrieved the stash of golden flower tea and flipped the lid. "Late? Quarter to five in the afternoon is not late," she said as she plucked one bag into each awaiting mug. Although, she reckoned this was down to being new to the surface. Light meant day, and darkness meant night, and daylight saving time was still a foreign concept.

"No doubt you must have some urgent business which is in dire need of my delicate attention."

"Sure, whatever." Now that Papyrus had gone through the motions, she could speak freely. As she poured the boiled water, she said, "I've got a new friend here that I'd like you to meet."

"A new friend? Undyne, you of all people should know that I, Papyrus, am capable of befriending anyone." He paused over the line. Undyne could easily imagine how he looked from his end; tall and confident whilst being absolutely clueless. "Who is this friend you speak of, if I may ask?"

Undyne grinned, inspecting her fingernails as the tea leaves fermented in the water. "Let me think. Male. Large guy. Big beard."

"King Asgore?"

It became a game now. "Wears a red suit. Carries a sack of toys wherever he goes."

"Yes?"

Undyne opened a nearby cookie jar, expecting a few chocolate chips to laden the plate on the tray. Popping the lid revealed nothing but crumbs of biscuit and chocolate in its recesses. Only two people lived in that house, and she never touched anything that would hinder her fighting spirit. Which, by process of elimination, narrowed the list of potential suspects to one.

Hiding her annoyance, she retained her smile. "Rides a sleigh. Works one day a year."

"Yes?" Papyrus's tone was louder, more excited. Faint rattling could be heard from over the receiver.

Opening the cupboard by her knees paved way to clean plates, bowls, cups and glasses.

"Lives at the North Pole," she continued. "Gives presents out on Christmas Day?"

As she parted the cupboard doors above, she expected to hear the loud, enthusiastic voice of her skeleton BFF. She heard nothing.

"You still there, Papyrus?" she asked as she waded through the boxes of cereal and pasta without nary a biscuit in sight. Still, nothing from the other end, not even the sound of breath or rattle of bones. "Hello?"

She span on her heels and approached the cupboards adjacent.

"Hello?"

Undyne grabbed the handles, pulled, and a massive avalanche tumbled out and splayed over the counter and floor. Her razor-sharp wits kicked in; she leapt back, pouncing like a leopard atop the unit behind her and conjuring a spear.

Before she could strike, she stopped. Facedown on the white tiles lay Papyrus himself, still in his battle body and a cell phone against the side of his skull.

"GIVE ME SANTA!" he howled, and Undyne heard it once from straight out his mouth and a split-second later from out the earpiece. In her haste, she failed to realise she still had the phone budged unconsciously on the nook between her shoulder and neck.

"Wha… Papyrus?" she muttered as she withdrew her weapon but remained coiled up on the granite top. "How did you…?"

The shuffling of a recognisable blue jacket and black shorts on the counter made her understand that he was not the only skeleton present.

Sans gazed over; a sombre expression in his face and a box of cookies on his chest. "Our home got run over by a stampede of gerbils," he said in a low, solemn voice before covering his eyes in anguish. "We live there now."

An unamused Undyne hopped off the counter, and Sans dropped his façade with a smile and a shrug.

"Nah, just kiddin'." He flipped the box lid and helped himself to some chocolate chip. "Shortcut."


	9. The First Noel

With the heater on full blast and snow tyres gripped onto the slippery roads, the Dreemurr's SUV swung up onto Alphys's and Undyne's driveway. The handbrake was engaged, engine switched off, and the four members trundled out onto the shovelled ground; Undyne would do anything for the sake of her fighting spirit. Speak of the devil, she was there to open the front door.

"Good timing, guys," said Undyne as she stepped aside to let them in. Asgore entered, then his wife, and their two children, carrying in flakes of white on their footwear and coats. "Those lousy roads didn't slow you don't one bit." She promptly shut the door.

Asgore gestured with his thumb to the door, or rather, the beast that lay sleeping behind it, out on the drive. "Not when you have a car like ours."

"Still does not make it any less daunting," Toriel added, "especially on such short notice." She made little attempt to hide her annoyance, which Undyne immediately understood having spent three hours making preparations over at her place. The smell of cleaning solution still persisted under her fingernails. "I would very much like to meet this _guest_ of yours." Toriel's irritated tone gathered some curiosity. Both her husband and herself were a thousand years old and still a little out of the loop with surface times, almost having caught up, yet wondered who possibly could be of such high importance.

As the guests removed their coats, hats, scarfs, and boots, Asgore glanced down the hall, finding it empty. "Where's Alphys?"

"In the garage," Undyne answered. Just then, Papyrus's unmistakable pitch resonated from the living room. "As for our guest…" She pulled a sly smile and shook her head. "I'd hate to be in his shoes right now."

* * *

It had been a long, long time since somebody last sat on Santa's lap. He just never imagined it would be with a such a fellow as this. While not technically a child, Papyrus still held the mentality of one – a trait too many adults had sadly forgotten.

Papyrus was so excited he couldn't even stop for breath, not like he had lungs. "So, Mister Santa, I've been really, really, really, really good this year and made every effort to surpass upon my spotless prestige. I would like a Serpent Seeker action figure, with the realistic Kung Fu grip and karate chop action, to complete my collection—" Santa sank deeper in his seat, his expression befuddled under a humble guise. "—and I also want the Serpent Seeker's Super Supercar with super wind-up action."

Santa glanced at the skeleton's apparent brother, who lay slumped in the nearby armchair, one leg over the armrest, slipper dangling by the toes. How he put up with a sibling like this throughout his life, Santa would never understand.

Nevertheless, he gave Papyrus a friendly pat on the head.

"Err… ho ho ho, little boy. I'm sure you'll get what you want."

Papyrus hopped off of Santa's lap, as content as his normal self. "Thank you, Santa," he said before skipping out of the room. Where was he going? No clue, but at least he was happy.

The jolly man watched as the skeleton in the battle body made his exit before facing the other.

"You, err, wish to plant yourself on my lap as well?" he asked.

Sans barely lifted his head. "Gotta admit: your lap looks pretty darn comfy…" He heaved himself an inch, trembled from the strain, and then crashed back in his spot. "Nope. Guess I'm stuck here."

Santa sat back and sighed, showing his relief. "Thank goodness for that."

"Hey, I've been thinkin' real quick," Sans said as the lights in his eye sockets remained locked on the ceiling, "I'm not on the naughty list, am I?"

Santa laughed in his trademark from the belly fashion. "Of course not, my friend."

"Oh, good." Sans paused, then glanced over and said, "Even after the whole DVD _incident_?"

…

_Three months earlier…_

On the coffee table lay a plastic DVD case which had slithered through the letter box ten minutes ago. The cover was plain white with two words written in sharpie: **Play me**

The flat screen television came to life with buzzing, screeching, tinny static. After a few seconds, footage materialised of Papyrus sat before the camera, smiling from behind a desk as if he were ready for an interview. He said:

"My friend Undyne—"

"—is as—" It suddenly cut to him cooking spaghetti in the kitchen, wearing an apron and chef hat.

"—strong as—" It cut again. Papyrus was before a mirror, flexing with sunglasses and fake muscles and sunglasses on the fake muscles.

"—wet—" Another cut. He's soaking wet, one towel around his chest and another around his head.

"—spaghetti!" Cut. Back to the cooking scene.

"Doctor Alphys—" Back to Papyrus behind the desk

"—smells—" Leaning over steaming hot spaghetti.

"—like—" Behind the desk again.

"—toy—" Holding one of his many figurines.

"—let—" Flexing before the mirror again.

"—water." He flicked a kettle on.

Alphys and Undyne, as still as statues, watched with their arms slack and jaws dropped, speechless. Undyne's eye began to twitch. They could do nothing but watch in silent, rising fury as their skeleton friend blasted scandalous insults against them.

"Undyne—can—kiss—MY—but—and—Alphys—looks like—stuff—found in—the back—of— the fridge. SANS—is—super—super—sup—sup—su—su—s—s—s—s—s—s—super cool—and—totally—did not—make—this—de—ve—de."

A spear appeared in Undyne's iron grip.

…

Santa rolled his eyes and hummed. "Forgive and forget as the good old expression goes," he answered.

"Forgive, yeah, but I ain't too sure on the _forget_ part," Sans replied before itching the back of his skull, one of the few itches he possessed at that point in time. "We still keep finding that stuff around the house every once in a while."

"What stuff?"

Before Sans could answer, the creaking of hinges drew them to the door. The king of the Underground guided his kingly girth through, followed by the queen.

Santa's eyes lit up upon glimpsing the two. "Well, I never…" he mused, spellbound, as if seeing ghosts. He remembered a boy with a tuff of golden locks, who needed time to grow the confidence he possessed right there. "I remember you two when you were only nippers."

Asgore raised an eyebrow at the elderly man who has kept himself in an impressively good shape. "And… who might you be?" he asked.

"Oh, of course," Santa said. "If you'll give me a moment..." He looked at Undyne. "Excuse me, dear, but would you be so kind as to fetch my coat?"

After an affirmation, Undyne disappeared and returned bearing the iconic red coat with white, fluffy trimming and golden buttons. She tossed it over, and the man slipped straight into it and buttoned it up. With his frame back, he laughed in his equally iconic fashion while jiggling his abundance of fake belly fat. The rest spoke for itself.

"You are Saint Nick?" Asgore asked.

"The one and only, my dear boy," Santa said as he examined the king from top to bottom. Even as a 'boy', Asgore still stood an entire two feet taller in comparison, mostly because of those horns. "My, you haven't half gotten bigger since I last saw you."

Undyne, leaning against the doorframe, had a question poking at her: "What's with the whole fat coat thing, anyway?"

Santa patted his belly. "Keeping up appearances, amongst other things." He refrained from sharing how the gel helped with stopping bullets and preventing blunt force trauma.

"That's nice," Asgore said, nodding, humouring him for now. "Pleasure to meet you."

Toriel, on the other hand, was far from amused or convinced. After directing a quizzical look back at Undyne, she rounded her husband and came face-to-face with the guest. Her arms were folded. Still, Santa greeted her warmly.

"And, of course, little Toriel." Such a smart, quiet girl in her youth, he thought. Buried in her books, accessorising with that flower above her left ear. "Not such a little 'un anymore. What a strong, elegant woman you've grown up to be."

"How nice of you to say, 'Santa'," Toriel said. "Pardon me, but as much as I would like to stay and chat, I am afraid I have got more pressing issues than to talk to pretenders."

"Oh, ho ho, I assure you," Santa said, "I am quite the genuine article."

Mrs Dreemurr grinned. "I assume you can prove it…"

"You want proof? Very well. Give me a sec…" Santa removed his hat and scratched the remaining hairs of white around his bald spot. With a snap of his fingers, an idea came to him. "I know just the thing."

He reached into inside pocket of his coat and rummaged around. "Hold on, it's in here somewhere." He sank his hand deeper in. Toriel rolled her eyes at the spectacle. "Almost got it," he said. By now, his entire arm was in and poking around. His face flashed with life. "Here we are." And he retracted his arm out, and there was a small, yellow envelope clutched between his fingers. "I believe this is yours."

Toriel took it. The paper, which was white once upon a time, had yellowed with age, and was so stiff that it might crack just by looking at it too hard. On the front, in scribbled, blotted ink, two words:

_To Santa_

The cocky grin fell from Toriel's face.

"Wait…" She turned the letter, opened the flap, and carefully dissected the letter, taking care while unfolding it. "That is not possible…"

The paper within yielded more shaky, scribbly handwriting rich with errors, crosses, and ink blots. Despite all this, it was still legible.

_Dear Santa_

_If what they say is true, then I knew I had to write to you. I do hope you get this letter._

_I wonder what it is like at the North Pole. I have heard it is very cold up there. It can get quite drafty here sometimes, but it cannot be as cold as there. I would not like to think that it was just as cold here._

_Life here has always been hard, and mother and father are always working to keep us fed. There has not been a day when all of us are around the table._

_I have never asked for anything in my life. Tonight, I ask only for one thing. All I ask is for one day. A day where none of us have to work. A day of cheer, and tea and biscuits and jam. Of music and merry thoughts. One day together, that is all I ask._

_A good day to you, Mr Santa._

_Sincerely,_

She clasped a hand over her mouth and came close to bursting into tears upon reading the name scribbled at the bottom:

_Toriel_

"What is it, Tori?" Asgore, feeling concerned, asked. Hand on her shoulder.

Toriel was enthralled by the childish letter in hand. "This is my letter to Santa," she whispered, taken back to the days of her youth, sat at her shaky desk on that cold, December night; a dying candle illuminated the parchment and the quill in hand. Back in the house she grew up in; its history buried along with an entire era. "I wrote it so long ago…when I was very young…" She looked up at the man who gave it to her. "I thought it was lost."

"Of course not, my dear. I keep every single letter in here, close to my heart." He patted his chest. "It's a very deep pocket."

Asgore asked, "Did you get the day you wanted?"

"I did." Toriel wiped the corners of her eyes. She remembered everything: the taste of strawberry jam on bread; the crumbly biscuits dipped in hot tea; a single day that stuck with her through all those years. "It was wonderful."

She pulled Santa Claus into a big hug, and he chuckled and returned it wholeheartedly. The once small girl now had the man in the red suit locked in strong arms. And, yes, she was surprisingly strong.

Peering past her, Santa caught another figure enter. A human child with brown hair.

"Why, if it isn't Frisk." After being released from Toriel's grip, Santa found himself before them, bending his knees to get a better look. He ruffled the kid's hair. "How lovely to meet you."

Frisk would have responded likewise, but their words had left them, along with their trail of thought. Santa Claus was real; he was standing there right now, he had returned an ancient later written by their mom, and he had a six pack beneath a fat suit.

Santa Claus glanced over their head, toward the door. "And this must be your brother, Asriel," he said.

Turning around, Frisk caught a glimpse of Asriel poke from behind the doorframe. Upon making eye-contact, he flinched further back.

"Come now, son," Asriel father spoke, "there's nothing to be scared of." He directed his next words to the saint. "Sorry, he's shy."

Frisk swallowed quietly, knowing that Asriel was more than shy. He was scared, petrified, terrified, mortified. He was the kid with a million sins on his back meeting the man who had never commited a single bad deed his entire life. What right did Asriel have be granted an audience with the saint of Christmas? They shot the quickest glance at Sans, the lights in his eye sockets gave the impression that he was in the same boat as them.

"There is no need to hide, Asriel," Santa Claus charmed while stepping closer. "A strapping young lad such as yourself shouldn't need to hide."

Undyne, on the same side of the door as Asriel, mentioned to him, "I've gotcha back in case he tries anything funny."

Swayed, lulled by Santa's soft words and Undyne's assuring ones, the young Dreemurr edged further and further from his hiding place, not stopping until his body fitted in the frame. Seeing their brother like that, so small and harbouring a slight tremble, it was hard for Frisk to believe that he used to be a root for so many wrongdoings. A soulless flower, the god of hyperdeath, a frightened child, and yet the legendary figure merely saw a child in need of some joy in his soul.

Toriel spoke up. "Go on, Asriel. Greet Santa Claus."

After much inner deliberation, Asriel rose a trembling paw and managed to get out in an unstable, cracking voice, "Howdy… Santa."

"Hello, Asriel. Relax, there's nothing to be frightened of." Santa gestured toward the couch, dented still with a profile of his own rump. "Why don't you tell me what you'd like for Christmas? I love hearing them."

From Asriel's perspective, the man's head leaned over overhead bulb, circling his head in light and casting a shade over his face.

In one painful flash, it returned. The carpet underfoot felt like soil. The air felt cold and clammy. Walls caving in like the caves of the Underground. Santa Claus looming above before the fissure in the Earth's surface:

_"This is where you belong."_

Asriel let out a yelp and rushed past Undyne down the hall. He sheltered his eyes behind white palms in a feeble attempt to shut himself away from the world.

Toriel called after him. "Asriel, there is nothing to be…" Her words trailed off as her son left her sight. "…Scared about."

She went to go after him only to be stopped by Asgore. "Let him go," he said. "If he's not comfortable, then he's not comfortable."

The inhabitants stood there concerned with what they just witnessed. None of them were more concerned that Saint Nick himself. The magic inside that living room had been alive, having been reunited with grown up Gorey and Tori, all tarnished in a heartbeat.

_He ran away,_ Santa thought, no longer smiling. _He ran away. Haven't had that happen since…_

A small tug on the side of his coat yanked him back to reality. It was Frisk and they explained that Asriel hasn't been in the best place of mind as of late, that he's been having nightmares. Involving him.

Santa inquired, "Does he believe me frightening?"

Frisk told Santa that their brother had made some… bad decisions in his life, and is very worried that he would judge him harshly over it.

"We've all made bad decisions in our lives."

Including you?

Santa plopped himself back down on his spot on the couch. "Not even Mister Santa is immune to making mistakes, even at my ripe age of one-thousand-seven-hundred-and-forty-eight. We all make them, and the truly bright learn from them." He patted on his lap while Frisk was left to contemplate the number of ridiculously aged people they've met in their life. "Now," he continued, "what would you like for Christmas, little, err, child?"


	10. Sleigh Bells Jingle-ing

_Such a complex contraption_ , Alphys thought as she lay in the chilly, boxy garage; a trolley supported her back as she worked on the sleigh's underside. The air was just shy of betraying her own breath. The hollow whistle from the gaps in the steel door were masked by the strong, upbeat tempo of one of her many favourite songs pulled from her favourite videogame soundtracks.

The wooden, primitive shell deceived the advanced workings underneath, the likes of which Alphys had never seen, but was easily able to identify. She worked fast, faster than ever before, absorbing in every nook and facet of information, picking up on the inner workings quickly; the more complicated the tech, the faster she could decode and understand it. Honestly, the work was no trouble at all. Mettaton's new body caused her much blushing and a great decline in concentration for weeks on end, but thanks to the sleigh's design, there were no hot flushes or cold sweats or lewd thoughts to impede her progress. The sleigh was… a sleigh. It caused her about as much unrest as fixing the microwave. Besides, since when did she get to work on technology so progressive and owned by the legendary Saint Nick himself?

Knowledge filled her subconscious, drowning it under a torrent of data. Not only would the sleigh be fixed to tip-top shape, but it would be faster, tougher, nimbler, all around better.

Still, however, a few questions niggled away as she went on her curious way. The biggest one being a lack of a fuel source. She discovered a battery for the on-board electronics, but no gas tank of any kind to give it the drive needed to propel itself into the air. What did it run on? It ran on nothing.

One last spot of soldering did the trick. Alphys rolled out and pulled up her welding mask. Her face was clean compared to the rest of her dusty body. A nearby tool trolley held the remote for the stereo, which she used to bring the hollow rush of winter into the garage.

She patted her hands down as she admired her handiwork. "All done," she announced in a proud fashion, in the privacy of herself and with nobody around to judge her. "Now to let Santa know."

The doctor waddled out of the garage and into the hall, getting halfway past the stairs until she realised she was unconsciously rubbing at her murky forearms. Warm water beckoned her from atop those steps, urging her to be her best in front of Mister Claus. Jovial cheer resounded from three doors away.

Alphys flipped out her phone and, making sure not to stain the screen, checked the time. "It's still early. There's s-still time, I guess. He seems to be enjoying the company for now," she said. Keeping up appearances got the better of her and she rounded the newel to climb to the floor above. "A couple of minutes to clean up won't hurt."

As Doctor Alphys retreated away to a quick wash and change in clothes, Asriel Dreemurr bolted down the hall, past the stairs.

Any other kid would have been overjoyed at the prospect of an audience with the man who handed out gifts to the nice, the one behind the magic of December 25th – well, actually, second to Jesus. Asriel was lost, confused, feeling the petals around his head, reaching out with vines and leaves, hearing that voice churning down his throat, hearing booming allegations echo inside his skull.

Despite smiling, despite greeting him with open arms, despite offering a place on his lap, Asriel knew that Santa knew – or at least he believed that he knew. All his bad deeds. All the lives he hurt and destroyed over and over. His name, notorious enough to title a list on its own, Santa knew it.

With no other thoughts besides accusations and disappointments, he ran into the next room in a desperate bid to place as much distance between the man who would judge his actions, and screeched to a stop on the cold concrete floor upon stumbling across that same man's ride.

Its magnificence stunned him; so rustic and humble in design. With its red paint and golden trimmings, it stood out of place within that lifeless, grey box known as the garage. The front seat was cushy and luxurious enough for the sturdy soul controlling it, along with a second row behind the first, possibly for passengers, and the biggest compartment in the back to house the biggest sack of presents he had ever laid eyes on. The burlap was fat with gifts, designated to children all around the world more deserving than himself.

Asriel shot a glance out the door. The hallway lay deserted.

As scary as the driver was, his vehicle was, in itself, a present waiting to be unwrapped. An adventure waiting to be explored. Many children could have a picture taken in a prop at the mall, but how many kids could say they sat in the actual sleigh belonging to the actual Santa?

"No one will notice," he whispered to his own ears, "if I take a little look…"

After quietly closing the door, he gingerly approached the sleigh, taking care as to not smear his own grubby fingerprints over the shiny trimmings.

"Just one look…" he assured as he climbed into the front seat. Hopefully, he won't leave any white fur around the crime scene. "No one will ever know."

He landed on the seat, right in the centre of a worn groove in the centre made from countless runs across the world. It was ten times wider than his scrawny posterior. The front was outfitted with a range of flying apparatus. Asriel struggled to imagine what it must be like to pilot this baby high, high up in the dead of the winter night.

A thought sprang to mind: maybe Santa Claus takes the nice and naughty lists with him when he goes out? It seemed plausible. He may need to double-check someone every once in a while, unless he had perfect enough memory to remember all seven billion people in the world.

A couple compartments adorned the complicated dash. This might be Asriel's only chance to find out on which sheet of paper his moniker lay. The left compartment yielded a single book: the sleigh's user manual; eight-hundred pages thick and heavy enough to induce amnesia. Popping the opposite glove compartment vomited out a heap of roadmaps and atlases. He just barely pushed them all back in enough to click the hatch shut.

After the resounding click had finished bouncing around the four walls, Asriel paused and listened, hearing nothing thumping down the hall much to his relief.

Next, Asriel scaled the back of the front seat and landed in the passenger section, where the leather on the seat were immaculate and smooth, untouched by the weight of many rear-ends. A five second search found nothing, nothing under the seat or any extra compartments.

Disheartened that his search had amounted to nothing, young Asriel rested his chin on the rim of the backseat and sighed, his eyes befalling the sack of presents. The top of open, unknotted, flashing a few layers of glossy, vibrant colours in flashy patterns. The contents of those boxes were so tempting, but it was a temptation easily dismissed. Those presents weren't for him.

He traced its shape from the top, working his way down, examining every bump and protruding corner and wondering who it was for and what it was. A videogame console for Jenny. A new phone for Andy. A rectangular block for some guy. The possibilities were as endless as Asriel's creativity.

Reaching the bottom, the pit that contained it was a deep, wooden box. Asriel's chin rose as he spotted something wedged between the sack and the corner of the pit. Small but noticeable, with a sparkly, silver glint. He needed a closer look.

The pit proved to be deeper than it first appeared as the boy hopped it; the lip reached the top of his head. After finding a solid footing on two sturdy boxes – and a quick prayer that the contents inside weren't fragile – he reached down and clutched the present wedging it down. With a hard tug on both the gift and the object, he managed to pry it loose.

In the single, buzzing lightbulb overhead, the bauble shone like a star and was decorated with dazzling stars of glitter. It was a lump of ice in Asriel's hands having obtained the chill from thirty-thousand feet above ground, and was surprisingly heavy. The compact Christmas tree decoration, no bigger than his palm, trembled his skinny arm – just holding it was a chore. He had a long way to go before becoming as big and strong as Dad. Or, at the very least, Mom.

Asriel cupped the bauble in both hands, yet still found it a struggle to hold. "How is anyone supposed to hang this on a Christmas tree?" he wondered, then strained his finger by holding it up by its ring. "The branch'll snap."

Right then, something did snap: the ring from its bauble. With a click of disengaging metal, the trinket landed in the spot where it was found.

"Oh, shoot, I broke it," he muttered. A fear grew. It may have been a small ornament, but it was Santa's ornament. What was he going to say when – not if, when – he found out.

"I'm really in for it now…" Asriel bent down it retrieve it. "Maybe if I put it back, then no-one'll ever kno—"

His hand was inches away when the silver bauble exploded. Asriel snapped back, drawing in a shocked gasp as a cloud of green gas enveloped him in an instant. The first mouthful was the largest. It raced down his throat and took effect in an instant. He shot straight up like elastic, then felt an overwhelming urge to drop as the heaviest bout of sleep seized his entire body.

"Oh, no…" Asriel mumbled. "…Oh… no…"

By the second breath, his head became weightless. By the third, the room started turning. Asriel grabbed the edge of the pit with arms like jelly and unresponsive fingers.

"…G-gotta… get out…" Asriel made a feeble attempt to both crawl from the pit and call for help at the same time. His voice came out no louder than a few octaves. "…Gotta get… Gotta… get…" His entire body was numb. His eyelids shut and refused to open back up. Having lost control over his body, the little prince helplessly slid back against the corner. "…Comfy…"

Slumping against the bottom, his knees budged against his chest, Young Asriel succumbed to the effects of the sleeping gas.

Five seconds after the gas is released, it is potently designed to disperse, becoming harmless and invisible. On the sixth second, the garage door opened and Doctor Alphys entered, followed by Santa, and then the others, funnelling in one at a time.

"Here it is," Alphys announced. "All fixed and t-tuned and ready for lift-off." She was clean and wearing a black shirt with Mettaton's blocky face on the front.

Asgore, Toriel, Frisk, Papyrus and Sans gasped at how impressive such a ride was. A fact not even the dull, grey interior could subtract from.

"Oh, my god!" Papyrus gawked like a giddy fangirl. "It's not the most hideous contraption I've ever seen! It is, in face, nowhere on the hideous scale!"

Santa replied, "Thank you." _I suppose._

Frisk spoke their mind, saying that Asriel would love to see this instead of where he had hidden off to. Asgore's comforting paw landed softly on them, followed by his equally comforting words:

"If your brother's not okay being here, then let's not force him into this."

"So… yeah," Alphys continued to the jolly man himself, "I've tuned her up re-real nice. You should find it'll handle better… and… and stuff." She really wish she knew how to nail her sales pitches.

Nevertheless, Santa was as joyful as always as he climbed in and tested the ignition for himself. Upon activation, it roared to life with a vigour he had never knew it possessed.

"Thank you ever so much, love," he said as he reached out and generously shook the doctor's hand. "You've been an extraordinary help, you have."

Alphys blushed. "N-no worries," he said as she contemplated never washing that claw ever again.

One by one, he extended his thanks to everyone in the room:

"Thank you for your hospitality." Next. "It was great to see you again." Next. "May all your Christmases be bright and merry." After which, he took hold of the reins. "Now I best be on my way. My wife will be worried sick."

Asgore grinned. "Then we better not keep you any much longer." He leaned closer, cupping a hand next to his mouth and speaking in a smaller tone. "No wife likes to be kept waiting. At least mine doesn't." That remark earned him a painless slap on the arm by his other half.

Pulling back on the riding leathers ever so, the sleigh levitated off the ground, ready for take-off. Undyne pressed the garage door and it churned opened, rolling into a condensed barrel above.

"Ho ho ho!" Santa bellowed as the garage door neared its most open. "Merry Christ—" He stopped himself a second before he could blast off, the back lurching upwards, almost hitting the ceiling. "Excuse me," he said, "but would you be so kind as to move your car?"

On the driveway, the Dreemurr's SUV – its red exterior flecked with white – stared with dead headlights and a grill of angry teeth at the sleigh, sizing it up, challenging it.

"Oh, right!" Asgore pulled out a jangling set of keys. "One minute."

In just his sweater and jeans, he jumped in the driver's seat, disengaged the handbrake and backed the car down the driveway. At the bottom, he turned around and budged up on the snowy pavement, allowing enough room for Santa's fleeting farewell.

Santa cleared his throat. "For real this time. Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas!"

The legend himself zoomed off into the Christmas Eve night, off to help more children across the world. Frisk, Toriel, Alphys, Undyne, Papyrus and Sans from the door, and Asgore from out his side window, watched and waved with wonder as he vanished like a shooting star. They stayed well after he was gone, long after the magic of the moment had faded.

"That was… eye-opening," Toriel understated.

"Sure makes a fella hungry," Sans said.

Alphys held a claw over her chest. "I've made the nice list for life."

"I'm thinking of cheese right now and I have no idea why," Papyrus added. They looked at him.

Asgore repositioned the car on the trodden lines made on the driveway. He came in from the cold.

"Well, Santa did say he wants our Christmases to be merry…" He held his wife and child lovingly, and they held him back with equal measure. "So what do you say we head home and enjoy the rest of tonight?"

"You guys don't wanna stick around for a bit?" Undyne asked.

"We shall have all day tomorrow to talk about this wonderful night. Until then, I wish to make preparations for Christmas," Toriel replied, then faced Frisk. "My child, please find your brother and tell him to get ready to head home."

Frisk nodded and set about looking. Alphys and Undyne's house wasn't the biggest house in the world, so a goat of their size should not be too hard to find.

They moved with a spring in their step, having met the real Santa Claus. At least now they didn't have to break the sour, soul-crushing news to their bro… if they could find him. Frisk started with the downstairs bathroom – small and isolated; a perfect place to hide. Empty. The kitchen – plenty of cupboards to crawl up in. Nothing. The dining room – would he hide under the table? Nope. The living room – erm… Desolate.

Asriel's coat, hat and boots were by the entrance, not to mention it was locked up tight. There was no way he would leave the house without them; Mom would kill him if he was caught outside without proper clothes.

Frisk called his name from the foot of the stairs and waited, but nobody answered. Upstairs, they checked the main bathroom, Alphys's room, Undyne's room, the dungeon, the bridge, the tower, in every wardrobe, under every bed, under every table, behind every door, inside every box, in the attic, everywhere. The sweat trickled harder the less hiding places remained.

Asgore was wrapping on his scarf and Toriel her black gloves when a hesitant Frisk crept beside them.

"Are we prepared to go, children?" she asked before glancing over and finding only one present. "Frisk, where is Asriel? I told you to go get him."

Frisk, staring at the floor, tapped their indexes together and span their big toe into the plush carpet. They would dig their way to China if they could.

Toriel, trying to read her child, narrowed her eyelids and placed the knuckles of her woollen gloves against her hips. "Where is he?" she said in a slow, demanding voice. "What has he done?"

Frisk gulped and smiled at their mother. About Asriel. You see… it's funny she should ask that…


	11. Away in a Manger

"Albert, do you read me?" Santa, after switching the screen on, spoke.

There was a pause of static, a moment where connections were re-established, then the image came in blurry before going crisp. There was the headrest of the seat in which his loyal butler would sit upon with the seamless white wall behind him.

A clap of leather shoes sounded and Albert appeared on screen. "Ah, welcome back, sir," he said loud and clear as he sat down. "That was rather hair-raising; had the whole of the North Pole on edge."

Santa snapped the leathers and his ride picked up speed. The doctor really knew her stuff; his sleigh had never been faster or more responsive. It felt a tad heavier, but these things were to be expected.

"I'm fine and dandy, Albert. That lady got the upper hand – put a nasty dent in the sleigh. How fortunate I was to crash-land among the friendliest of folk, and some canny kids as well." He patted the dashboard's fine wood. "Fixed up the old gal in no time at all."

"Friendly folk," the butler reiterated, allowing the sound to linger on his tongue and settle on his belly. "Do you believe it wise to reveal yourself to strangers? Especially children?" Pause. His master blinked slowly. "Perhaps that wasn't phrased in the most eloquent manner…"

Santa shook his head, smiling, eyes half-lidded. "I'm afraid it wasn't, my friend," he replied. "They were monsters. Well, apart for one, but I digress. Them knowing of my identity should be fine." The reintegration of monsters among the earthly populace had already stirred the pot of strangeness in the world, not to mention they also knew magic; so one sighting of the legendary Santa Claus by a handful of monsters was unlikely to turn many heads. "There were two in which I knew from a long time ago," he finished.

"Still, it's best to err on the side of caution," Albert warned. "There's no telling what they could've done while you weren't looking."

With a flick of a button next to a screen opposite, Santa ran a quick diagnosis on his ride. Again, she was slightly weightier, but the systems and components were all green across the board. "Everything's dandy – don't worry about it," he said. "Anyway, now that I'm back on track, what happened with Prophet?"

Albert let out a sigh. "She vanished shortly after your tumble. Haven't been able to find her since. She could be anywhere by now."

Santa shook his head. For the second time, she had alluded him once more. Never before had one person given him so many headaches.

"While I'm on the same subject," Albert resumed as he reached for a piece of paper off-screen, "I managed to run a check on the centre she was last seen at before you gave chase." He ran his eyes down the list. "The establishment was known for containing the more unusual components, and an inventory check has found that several of these have been stolen." One after the other, the points were announced. "Raven feathers. Toadstool. Dried fern leaves. Garlic cloves. Frog eggs. Frog eyes. Frog tongues." He stopped to clear his throat. "Tasteful."

"Sounds like the things a witch would boil in a cauldron," said the saint in the red suit. "I'll keep a closer eye on things tonight."

"Sir, I must insist, you've been in a nasty wreck and gotten the whole of the Workshop worried sick. At least come back home so that we can check on you."

A couple red dots appeared on the radar "In a little bit, Albert." He checked his dash, then turned left. "A few more jobs and then I'll come home."

"Somehow, I doubt that, sir."

Across the sky, faster than sound, sharper than a shooting star, the saint of Christmas Day rode in a flash of red. He, his sleigh, and his sack of presents budged in the back along with the sleeping prince of the Underground.

* * *

"What do you mean he is not here?" Toriel's voice continued to quake every corner of the house and beyond ten minutes after she yelled it.

A second sweep of the premises – this time conducted by all – revealed no trace of Asriel, and tensions began to rise. The walls ran thick with his name, being called over and over. High and low they checked. In the attic, in Alphys's lab in the basement, in every conceivable hiding spot there was and found not one clue to his whereabouts. They all met back in the kitchen. No luck amongst any of them – not even a single strand of his fur.

Toriel was at the table. Head in hands. "Our son is missing, and we were so close to Christmas." Her mind swam with all the worst scenarios, everything bad thing that could happen to a vulnerable child in this world. "Someone must have kidnapped him. Broken in and taken him."

"No way!" Undyne started. "Whole place is locked up tighter than a safe. You gotta be either super tough—"

"Or super smart to get in or out," Alphys finished.

Sans, barely lifting his hand off the table, aimed his thumb Papyrus's way. "And this guy jumpin' through ya window every visit?" he asked. The guy in question stood taller with a puffed out chest as if proud by that question.

Alphys scratched her hairless chin. "That still leaves me baffled. Maybe it transcends all strength and logic entirely." Her hand twirled, waving off the though. "We'll just need to keep the replacements coming until I can invent some Papyrus-proof windows."

"The point is," Undyne said, taking control of the conversation, "nobody could've broken in and taken Asriel away. 'Sides, the front door was locked and there's no extra footprints out back besides mine."

Her reasoning had done nothing to quell any worries; if anything, it made it worse. Toriel sank lower, elbows propped on the top, her husband and human child comforting her with the best their troubled love could give. Undyne slumped on the kitchen top, stumped that Asriel might as well have transformed into a puff of air.

Sans placed his hands before his eyes, visualising the scene before him. "Alright, let's start from the top. Where did we last remember seein' him?"

Everyone, except Alphys, answered that he was last seen in the living room, right before he ran away from Santa. He fled down the hall, in the direction of the garage.

Doctor Alphys, being the odd one out, was pressed for details. She relinquished that she was all alone in the garage while she worked on Santa's sleigh. She fixed the sleigh, went upstairs for two minutes to clean up, then headed straight down to the living room and then back to the garage.

"Are you sure nobody came into the garage while you were there?"

Alphys said no.

"Did anyone pass you in the hall?"

With a stutter, still no.

"Did you see or hear anyone upstairs before or after you cleaned up?"

For a third time, getting annoyed now, no.

Sans hummed, his face creased in deep concentration. "So, we last saw Asriel run into the hall. Alphys went out of the garage and up the stairs…"

Papyrus butted in, "Then by process of elimination," he said, "the one and only viable location Mini Asgore ( _"Asriel,"_ Asgore interjected) could've gone is… the garage." He proclaimed that revelation as if he were Sherlock Holmes making a smashing deduction. All that was missing was the pipe, and the double-sided hat, and the tweed coat, and a nose, and ears, and hair, and eyeballs, and skin, and muscles, and the intellect.

Undyne shook her head. "We've checked that place five times from top to bottom." Her index and thumb came a centimetre apart. "I was this close to turning it upside-down and shaking it out."

Asgore looked up from his wife. "Plus, we were all crowded in their earlier. None of us caught a glimpse of him while Santa took off in his…" A dot connected. "In his…"

All eyes rose and gazed ahead in dead, glassy silence.

"His sleigh!" they cried out in unison, nearly causing an avalanche miles away on the snowy peaks of Mount Ebott.

"There's no other e-explanation," Alphys said frantically. "Asriel was on that sleigh as it left."

"Does this mean…" Toriel dared to ask; her tone grave and face sunken. "He kidnapped our son?"

Asgore was quick and assuring, as assuring he could be in a situation like this. "Now, now, let's not jump to conclusions," he said in a soft manner.

"I'm… I'm sure it must be a mistake – a misunderstanding," Alphys, red-faced and twiddling her thumbs, said. "I don't think he's snatched your kid. On purpose."

"Santa Claus could never be capable of such atrocities," Papyrus shouted, springing to Santa's defence.

Sans leaned his head to the side, in the direction of his bro. "How many old, bearded, muscly dudes who offer kids free candy would you trust?"

To which, he replied, "Only the ones not offering coconut."

Undyne slouched and sighed. "Pretty much meaning we have no idea whether the guy whose ride we fixed is a keeper or a creeper." She palmed her fist to the sound of knuckles against scaly hand, much to her girlfriend's revulsion. "For his sake, it better not be the latter."

Alphys said, "And now he's likely to be thousands of miles away by now." She removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. "I checked his sleigh while I was working on it, it's able to reach crazy amounts of speed. For all we knew he could already be on the other side of the world."

Or back snuggly in his workshop at the North Pole, Frisk told them.

"In that case, that's where we're going." Asgore faced Sans. "You can use one of your shortcuts to get us there, can't—?"

Sans, surprising everyone, jumped back from the table. His mitten hands up in defence. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the phone there, your majesty." He tugged the zips of his jacket, suave-like. "I work wonders, but I ain't no miracle worker. You got any clue how many doors they gots over in the Arctic? Over all those flats? There's no way I can half-bake us there."

Papyrus sprang forward. "Keep on raking up those phone bills, brother." His eye sockets were narrow, as if having ensnared Sans at his own game. "Remember that 'land in the sky' business a few months back? The Outerworld, as it was called?" He and everyone watched as the shorter skeleton of the two glanced to the ceiling and scratch his bald head; a ruse none of them were in the mood to fall for, having remembering it all too well. Papyrus continued, "You'd never been there before, and yet you got there without a hitch. You mean to tell me you can get to a place you've never been to, but have trouble with a real place here on Earth?"

Sans sighed and retook his seat. "Welp… What can I say?" All he could do was shrug. "That's lazy writing for ya."

Many sighs and shaking heads filled the empty space of the decorated kitchen. Tinsel hung from the behind the picture frames. Lights flashed from outside the patio door. A miniature tree stood in the centre of the kitchen table. None of it meant a thing while Prince Dreemurr was missing.

With nobody else saying anything, Sans decided to go on. "I mean, we can't exactly hail a cab to the North Pole?"

"Can't we?" Papyrus said. "Would four dollars and ten cents from my piggy bank be enough?"

"Pap, four dollars and ten cents ain't even gonna get you to the other side of town."

"Yes. But the other side of town isn't the North Pole, now is it."

Undyne refrained from smashing her fist through the kitchen top. The insurance company informed here that they could no longer cover any damages to furniture by way of fist, foot, spear, elbow, forehead, head, or Papyrus's head. "So… what? We just sit here, sweating until we either get Asriel back or not? Not on my watch! I say we take action!"

"But how, Undyne?" Toriel asked.

That was the million dollar question, and it shut the former commander up in an instant. For all of her rage, the simple question posed as an insurmountable barrier of which no amount of muscle could overcome. The kitchen went quiet.

Sans's lit up with an idea. He spoke up: "This sounds like a job for our friend Doctor Gaster."

Toriel looked over. One of her eyebrows was raised. "Gaster?"

"Yeah, don'cha remember?" said Sans, pointing over his shoulder. "We went on that epic quest to save him a couple months back? After the whole, you know, ' _whoopsie, I tripped and fell into the Core_ ' thing?"

The enclosed air of the kitchen became filled with a discord of affirmations and the snap of fingers. Memories rekindled to the drum of that name. A long forgotten name.

"Oh, of course!" Asgore tapped his head. "How could anyone forget that adventure?"

"It was the perfect blend of suspense, comedy, drama, and mystery," Alphys added.

Frisk mentioned how fun it was, although there was that moment where they turned into a dog for some reason.

Papyrus, fantasising it, sighed and nodded. "That was great. A PG-thirteen adventure for the whole family."

"Exactly," Sans said, leaning back in his chair. "Gaster's been across time and space, knows every nook and cranny from here to the edge of this existence and all existences in-between. Plus, he's super smart, but you already figured that. If there's anyone who can help us in reaching the North Pole in record time, it's—"

Music filled the room. It came from the phone wedged in the pocket of Sans's jacket. His ringtone was set to a little ditty called _Megalovania._

"Hold up one sec, guys," he said as he went to exit the room. Sans pulled his phone out and brought it to the side his earless head. "What's up?" The others caught the cool, suave look on his face before he rounded the door frame. "Guilty as charged. I'm Sans."

…

"You ain't caught me at a bad time."

…

"Him? Oh, what a coincidink, we were just talkin' about him ri…"

...

"What'd'ya mean, ' _he fell in again'_?"

...

"Okay, thanks. See ya."

Sans returned to the kitchen. A neutral look on his face as he pressed the end call button.

"Welp, so much for that idea."

The kitchen became quiet once more. Thoughts and concerns, worries and qualms ran rampant on every mind. For Asriel, of course. Not for… whoever they were talking about earlier. What was his name again? Oh, well, it ought to come back to them sometime.

It was the Outerworld incident all over again: them, crowded around the table after having watched a loved one fly off into the sky. Frisk, however, had their feet firmly on the ground; it was Asriel's turn now. Back then, the solution (or at least the best one at the moment) came from the mouth of the former Royal Scientist, Doctor Alphys, who found the confidence to raise her voice for one second and say what they needed to reach the Outerworld.

Could she hold their solution once more?

She looked up to speak. Looked like she just might be.

"I…" was one syllable too many needed to garner the gaze from every eye and eye socket in the room. Alphys suddenly felt uncomfortable as she switched between Sans, then Asgore, then Frisk, then Undyne, then settled on Toriel. She powered through her shyness. "While I was working on Santa's sleigh, I got a grasp on how it worked. I'm pretty sure I could replicate the flight, lift and speed in a vehicle in order to get us to the North Pole in no time at all. But I'm going to need one thing…"

"You're gonna construct us a second sleigh?" Undyne asked. There was a degree of excitement detected in her tone.

"Well, building one from scratch'll take too long, but I'm pretty sure I can alter an existing vehicle to work exactly like the sleigh."

"What kind of vehicle?"

"I think… I think any old car will do. Like, uh…" Her eyes shifted. "Like…"

They followed her sideways glances as they all made their way in the same direction, toward the window. Through the frosted glass of real and fake snow, a single car – the Dreemurr's eight seater SUV – stood idle and cold on the snowy driveway.

Asgore went to his wife before she could react. "Now, now, Tori – Toriel," he said. There was a time for nicknames and there was a time for full names. Choosing the right one was harder than it sounded. "I know the car is valuable, but—"

Toriel, ignoring her husband, faced the doctor. "Do it" was all she said.

"We all must make sacrif – oh, wait, you wish to get the car altered…" Asgore took a step back and flicked a building bead off his brow. "Usually we're divided over such rash decisions."

Doctor Alphys rubbed her claws together. Her eyes flashed, determined. "Pull it into the garage and give me half an hour."

King Asgore hid a grumble as he fished out the car keys. He was walking back out there and moving the car. Again.


	12. Sleigh Ride Together With You

_Whoa… What happened…?_

Heavy eyelids refused the budge the blurry moment Asriel's consciousness returned. A second attempt forced them open by a few millimetres. The third got halfway. The weight vanished on the fourth and final attempt, throwing the blinds open to the sight of the giant sack of gifts.

The sensation regrew within his body, along with an ache in his back and a nasty crick in his neck from however long he had stayed budged in the corner. Whatever tiredness remained he rubbed away with fingers he could barely feel, not due to the knockout gas, but to the biting cold in which the garage had plummeted to. Asriel hugged his freezing body tight, wishing he had his coat.

How long had he been out? It felt like seconds, but could have been hours or even days. Small panic set in at the possibility that he had awoken to Christmas Day, or slept through to the day after.

Enough lying around. Asriel stood up, still bleary eyed, and scratched an itch on the tip of his cold snout. Someone must have opened the garage door and switched the light off. Gusts of wind piled into the ice box, ruffling his hair in every direction.

He grabbed hold of the edge and pushed himself off the sturdiest present he could find to get his leg up. His bare foot reached the top of the pit and he climbed out. Time to head back inside and—

Asriel looked down a split-second before he could step off, finding the grey cement floor replaced with empty blackness.

"WHOA!"

Asriel went wide awake in an instant, so much so that his eyeballs threatened to pop out their sockets. One foot still hugged the ledge, the other hovered over the immense drop. His muscles seized up and the screech of violin strings seized his chest. Desperately, his frozen toes gripped the wood and he tried to force his body out of the action it was already committed to. He threw himself back, then buckled his leg, forcing himself into a painful roll across the thin edge and landing in the backseat.

"Ow!" The leather did little to cushion his tumble.

The slight shudder and voice from his six registered in Santa's sharp mind. He shot a look over his shoulder and found the usual: the imposing sack of Christmas goodies, swaying in the night; the neglected backseat, moments when it was full was rare, rare indeed. A white, furry hand drunkenly reached up and gripped the backrest followed by a white, furry face.

The small figure shook the daze from out his head before making eye-contact with a bearded old man. Asriel Dreemurr, upon realising he was face-to-face with Santa Claus, shrieked. Every hair stood on end.

"Oh, my word!" Santa muttered before smiling. "Guess that explains the extra weight, you sneaky rascal, you."

"Oh no!" the boy cried. Asriel spread himself wide on the wider backseat. His head turned in all directions, confused by his surroundings, searching for a way out. "Wh–where am I? Where's Mom? Where's Dad? Where… where…? I shouldn't be here! I gotta get off! I… I gotta…"

Santa quickly brought his sleigh to a stop before tending to the disorientated, frightened youngster. "Now, now, hold your horses, my boy." He turned around in his seat and reached out with soft, gloved hands. "There's naught to be—"

"Don't look at me! Don't look at me!" Asriel escaped the hand reaching for him by scrambling to the corner, whereupon he curled up into a tight ball, burying his head in his knees and shielding his face with his hands. "You—you don't know me! You don't wanna know me!"

"Asriel, please calm down. You have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing of any sort will harm you all the way up here. I promise."

Asriel said nothing, but remained coiled up, snivelling and snorting. Santa noticed the shaking in his hands, feet, and entire body.

"Poor lad, you're shivering. Are you cold?"

Reluctantly, little Asriel lifted his head with an uncontrollable shudder from the jaw. "A… A l-l-l-little…?" he understated. Breath came out white and misty. The cold has long since bypassed his natural insulation and gnawed away deep into his core. His own words were set to freeze in his throat.

The man in the red suit stood up and straddled to the back with three steps as if he had done it thousands of times, which he most likely had. He reached up into the flapping mouth of the sack and pulled out a wrapped present that he offered to the boy.

"Here. An early gift from me to you. Take it."

Still shaking like mad, Asriel could only stare at the present being handed to him. Santa appeared so forthcoming and assuring as he held it with outstretched arms. Asriel took the box with solid, unfeeling fingers, struggling to hold it straight. Unwrapping it proved effortless, almost like it unwrapped itself. Removing the shell revealed the pearl inside: a thick winter coat, a pair of gloves, a hat and scarf all in his size.

He pulled the coat out first, then the gloves. These brands you'd never ever find in a thrift shop. The coat alone was the kind professionals would wear while scaling Everest, and exactly his size. Whatever tensions he held toward Santa slowly melted after the coat hugged his body, and the insulating properties of the gloves, hat and scarf took effect in no time at all.

"Better?" Santa asked.

"Y-yeah," replied Asriel. "Thanks."

Santa Claus laughed jovially and rubbed the child's head, shifting his hat askew over his eyes. "Ho hoh hoh, you are most welcome, lad."

As Asriel adjusted his headwear, he could not stop himself from perking up a smile. A small rising twitch of the corner of his lips, but a twitch nonetheless.

"Ah, there we go!" Santa said, beaming all the way. "You look so much better with a smile." Indeed, a smiling child was the one thing which pleased Saint Nick the most. Gold, silver, diamonds and rubies all dulled in comparison. "A handsome lad like yourself, I bet you have to fight off all the girls at school, don't you?"

Asriel felt his face go red and the sputter of a giggle escape between his lips. The worst part was that Santa wasn't entirely wrong; there wasn't a single girl in third grade who hadn't openly stated that he was cute. Some in a boyfriend material way, others in the petting-zoo sense. He hated both, of course.

"See?" continued Santa. A smile was amazing, but a laugh was more than amazing. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Do I look like a scary bloke?"

"I… I guess not," Asriel muttered. He glanced away as the thoughts from earlier returned, how he acted all frightened before him, how he ran away shortly after. He felt silly now. "Hey, uh, Santa? I'm sorry I ran away from you before."

"It's quite alright. Your sibling explained a little about you." This earned Santa a shocked gaze from the boy. "Told me about some nasty dreams you've been having, and that you've been worrying about a few bad decisions you've made in your life. Haven't we all?"

"You've… made mistakes?"

"Oh, yes. Tons of mistakes. The trick is to learn from them and to never let them get you down. I assure you, no matter what you may've done, you're a good lad in my book."

Asriel felt his soul hop a beat, leap with joy at hearing Santa call him a good kid. A twitch in his brow and the brief opening of eyes blemished his poker face. "Thanks…" was all he could get out when every sense in his body wanted for him to scream with joy, to announce it to the world that Asriel Dreemurr was on the nice list. Weeks of guilt and of worry crusted around his soul crumbled away, and he breathed easy for the first time in a while.

"Interested in the sleigh, I see?" Santa gave his pride and joy ride a pat on the leather backrest. "She's a beauty. More comfortable than she looks. Were you catching forty winks in the back?"

Asriel murmured softly before speaking up. "Actually, Mister Santa, I, err, found something in the back, like a bauble but it…"

Santa's bushy eyebrows came down with concern. "A bauble?" He faced the pit where the sack of presents resided. "In the back?" Once more, he stepped to the back and instead of peering into the sack, he peered downward into the pit that contained it. A gasp escaped his lips. "My sleeping grenade!" He reached in and pulled out the cracked open, shredded skin of the tool which carried a powerful knockout gas. "So that's where it went."

The jolly man, as he tucked the remains inside his coat, rushed back to Asriel who could only imagine why such a friendly man such as him would require a knockout grenade.

"I'm sorr—" Asriel started before being interrupted.

"Please, Asriel, don't be daft," Santa had both his gentle hands on Asriel's shoulders. "I'm the one who's sorry. I should've known that was down there. I never wished to cause you any harm."

"It's okay – it didn't hurt or anything, just made me fall asleep."

"As it's meant to."

Asriel turned to the spot in which he teetered over the staggering drop. "And I nearly walked off the edge after I woke up."

Santa followed his gaze over to the spot beside the oversized bag. "I bet that must've given you a fright," he said.

Asriel cringed at the prospect of spending his final moments hurtling toward the ground at terminal velocity. "Yeah…" was all he could say to that.

Santa hopped over to the front seat, helping the kid over to sit beside him. "Then allow me to make it up to you," he said. "I'll get you home in a jiffy. Your parents'll be worried sick." He reached for the reins, but stopped himself before he could grab them. "Although…"

Asriel was puzzled. "Although what?"

"We're merely a hop and a skip away from the North Pole," Santa commented after checking the dash. "And the night is still young…" He faced the boy. "How would you like a tour of my workshop? It's the least I can do after what you've been through."

Asriel hesitated. "A tour? Of _your_ workshop?" Images of gingerbread, snowy roofs, shelves of toys and a warm fire in the mantle sprang to mind. A fantasy for many, but for him, it was about to become a reality. Still, an unseen apparition made his head shake on its neck. "But didn't you just say my parents would be worried?"

He imagined his dad tearing his beard out, and his mom calling the National Guard, and his sibling contemplating the ultimate decision – a single word written and bordered in golden letters against a black background. For all he knew, they probably already tried; however, in this format of existence, that was quite impossible.

Immediately, Santa reached into his coat and pulled out a golden fountain pen and paper so white that itself almost sheened with gold. He flattened the paper against the dash and began to write away at a pace faster than any regular human being was capable of.

"I'll send a letter over to Alphys and Undyne's house," he said as he wrote, "letting them know where you are."

Seconds later, he had his finely crafted letter. Perfectly spaced and centred. The handwriting, perfect with the right amount of flair. No errors.

_Dear Mr & Mrs Dreemurr_

_Allow me to say how wonderful it was to make your acquaintance once more. Seeing you both after such a long was a tremendous occasion in which I will not forget._

_You can stop fretting over Asriel, he is safe and sound with me. He fell asleep in my sleigh and I have offered him a tour of my workshop as compensation. After which, I promise to return him home safely well before his bedtime._

_Best wishes,_

_Saint Nick_

"You wrote that fast," Asriel commented.

Santa folded the letter and neatly placed it inside a creaseless, red envelope. "I've had several hundred years' practice," he said before sealing it shut, found the address on one of the screens and had it printed directly onto the face, along with a stamp. Then, without warning, he tossed it into the air. The written letter span and flipped and twirled as it flew back in the direction in which they had travelled. Asriel leaned over to catch a fleeting trace of red as the night gobbled it up. "The stamp is a homing beacon," Santa explained. "In a few short minutes, it will slip straight through their letterbox. He retook the reins. "Now, the North Pole awaits!"

* * *

Twenty eight minutes after Alphys announced that she needed thirty minutes to recondition the car, she burst into the living room and got caught in the bothered gazes from the rest of her friends.

"Car's ready," she said with a slight stutter. She now wore a pink Mew Mew Kissy Cutie shirt. "Come and check it out."

Alphys retraced her way back, hear a stampede follow close behind. Upon entering the garage, the Dreemurr's eight-seater SUV looked exactly how it was after Asgore pulled it in; large, shiny, red, and road-worthy.

"So, Doc. What exactly," Sans said, "are we s'pposed to be lookin' at?"

"Doesn't look all that different to me," Undyne mentioned.

Doctor Alphys adjusted her specks and cleared her throat. "It's, uh, all under the hood. Hop in – you'll see once it gets fired up."

The King opened the door and took his pride of place behind the steering wheel. At first glance, it looked and felt no different from the hundred other times he had sat there. The speedometer, fuel gauge, engine temperature and rev dial – all dark and lifeless – looked far from the interior of a jumbo jet. It wasn't until he started the ignition did the magic happen.

The engine awoke with a giant roar, also awakening the thrusters which replaced the tyres, levitating it off the ground. The gauges transformed into balance, altitude and speed dials. The garage door rumbled open. Everyone shielded their eyes from the gust of wind.

"You heard the lady," Asgore called out over the revving engine. "Hop on in."

He eased off a little and the rest piled in: Toriel in the front passenger seat, as she should be; Frisk, Alphys and Undyne in the middle; Sans and Papyrus in the back, with one seat empty for the missing member of the flock. Asgore eased the flying car out and the garage door shut behind them. He adjusted the rear-view mirror and tightened his grip on the wheel.

"Alright, everyone," Asgore announced. "Next stop: Santa's Workshop."

Everyone cheered.

"Right after we stop for gas."

Everyone groaned.

Sans raised his hand. "Hey, guys," he began to ask, "can we get drive-thru?"

"Uh, dude," Undyne said as she looked over her shoulder. "We're here to save Asriel, not to satisfy your curiosity."

Frisk, sat between Alphys and Undyne, posed a question: how many people could say they've driven down a McWendy King's drive-thru in a flying car?

Papyrus mused, "I must admit, this bizarre case has peaked my interest…"

Undyne arched an eyebrow. "Papyrus, you don't like grease."

"No, but I like to break new ground."

Asgore huffed a sigh. "Alright, we'll take a vote. All in favour of heading straight to the North Pole after getting gas—" he raised his arm, knocking his knuckles against the ceiling with a muted thump "—raise your hand."

Toriel followed along with Undyne, who gave her girlfriend and wimpy loser friend stern looks. Alphys, twiddling her fingers, was torn.

Asgore lowered his hand. "And those in favour of the drive-thru?" He glanced in the mirror to find Frisk, Alphys, Papyrus and Sans with raised hands. Undyne, with arms folded, still glared at those beside her. Asgore Dreemurr rolled his eyes and panted another dishevelled grunt as he slammed the car into drive. Even his adopted child and his son's own half-sibling had betrayed him. "Four against three," he said dryly as he heaved it in drive. "Fast food it is."

And so, the flying car took off, swerving over the road and chugging away at a brisk twenty-five miles per hour.

They were one-hundred yards away when a scarlet envelope swooped through the air and slipped into the mailbox.

* * *

The air was cold, just how she like it. The chill, the feeling of isolation, of abandonment, made her feel alive in the most ironic sense. The light was minimal, an abstract to the amount of hope in her life – hope not just for herself, but for the entire world once she was done.

No walls and no ceiling except for the bare concrete under her combat boots. This place was her element, had been her haven for a long time. But that would soon change.

She inspected her gatherings: scrolls of ancient spells and all the ingredients she needed, with a few extra components just in case. The potion – a green-blue concoction of bubbling slime – was ready.

Two final objects remained. Then Christmas would be hers.

She would see her curse ended.


	13. The Stars are Brightly Shining

Such a quiet, peaceful night. Empty and vast. Darkness and cold in the air in down below where the waters churned without end. Millions of stars twinkled on that Christmas Eve, surrounding the eye of the fat moon. A rarity in a day and age of technology; a sight lost on too many people, doomed to be viewed merely as some background on a desktop.

All good things must come to an end sometime.

The sleigh crashed through the clouds before zipping and zigzagging back up between them, careening left, corkscrewing and then swerving down back into the clouds again. The silence was interrupted by the sound of a child's shrill screams at every sharp dip.

"Don't be so tight on the reins," Santa, seat back in his seat and secured by a thick seatbelt, instructed.

Asriel was panic-stricken as the mass of wood and metal leaned to one side and his attempts to fix it only threw him to the extreme of the opposite direction. They descended fast, closer and closer toward the freezing ocean below. With a little guidance from Santa, he was able to pull up with time to spare.

He cried, "I can't do this," then offered control back to the man in the red suit. "Here, take it back!"

Santa placed his gloved hand over Asriel's, encompassing it with warmth. "You can do it, Asriel, I know you can," he said calmly. "Don't force the reins. Hold them firm, look where you wish to go, and the rest will take care of itself."

As he made a beeline upwards, Asriel took a moment to inhale, swallow, then exhale, helping to subside his shakes at least by a fraction. He held the reins as instructed and without thinking, without him doing so, or trying, the sleigh balanced out and resumed course directly north. He brought them down a tad and felt the assuring lift, stopping upon reaching the optimum altitude. A tad rocky, but much, much smoother than a few minutes ago.

The gloved hand slowly pulled away and, before he knew it, Asriel was flying solo and doing a decent job at it.

"There you go," Santa said. "Now you're cookin'. Steady as she goes, Captain."

Asriel smiled and let out a small, nervous giggle. "Um… thanks."

"Don't thank me. Thank yourself." He leaned over to check one of the many dials on the dashboard. "We're right on course, too. Nearly there, now."

The boy couldn't believe what he was doing; riding a sleigh at the same altitude as the air traffic. He completely forgot a couple times what he was doing and lost himself in the moment, in the night, under the watchful gaze of the stars. A couple of minutes later, he was informed to drop altitude. Asriel raised the reins and felt the sleigh drop at a gentle rate. He descended until he was below the clouds and spotted the bright lights of what he could guess was their destination.

Down below, a village stood as lit up as a Christmas tree – and Asriel was willing to bet he'd find plenty of these there. Miles of desolate, frozen waste stretched for miles in all directions, coloured dark navy. Yet, Santa's home shone warm and inviting in the North Pole – the Arctic's heart. His soul pulsed with excitement. The boy was so close to the place where Christmas called home. Santa's Workshop: happier than Disney's Magic Kingdom, Care Bear Land, Pee-wee's Playhouse, and Finland put together.

Just as the excitement rose, a dam formed in the boy's throat. "Are you wanting me to land as well?" he asked.

"Oh, heavens no. I wouldn't make you do that." Santa held his hands out for the controls. "I'll take it from here."

Asriel was all too eager to hand them back. With the leathers back in his grasp, Santa made his smooth descent downwards, circling as he went.

"Welcome home, sir," Albert's voice greeted from over the intercom, along with his image.

"And always a warm one," Santa replied.

Albert spotted the other figure sitting next to his master. "Ah, I see you've found a new addition for our farm pens," he said, earning him a sharp stare from the same figure he referred to. "Healthy specimen, I may add. However, I find it most peculiar that this one is wearing clothes."

"Wha—?" Asriel muttered. He was shocked, and, from the looks of the other man's expression, he was shocked to hear a goat talk. This initial reaction gave away to furrowed eyebrows. "What'd he say?"

Before he could get anymore words out, Santa leaned over, stammering his words. "Al-Albert, this fine, young man here is our guest for the night," he said, speaking in that famous 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' tone of voice. "A special guest as well. From under Mount Ebott."

"Oh, of course, sir. My deepest apologies."

"The workshop's all tidy for the tour, yes?"

"Isn't it always, sir? There's hasn't been as much as a shred of tinsel misplaced in over a hundred years."

Santa took his hands away from the reins, much to Asriel's uneasiness, to rub them together in eagerness. "Splendid," he said, before taking them down lower, closer to those vibrant red ceilings topped with frostings of snow. They became close enough to feel the warmth of those dazzling lights. The below-zero, freezing temperatures had no place among those shovelled, cobble streets, full of the finest, cosiest scents.

Asriel inhale deep and picked up the fascinating aromas of cinnamon and peach, apple pie, liquorice, turkey, prickly pine, pudding, hot chocolate and gingerbread, roasted chestnuts over the wood of an open fire, and mulled wine.

People milled in those streets, waving their greetings and goodwill to the man above.

"Cool," Asriel couldn't stoe himself from shouting out. "Is your place like this every day?"

Santa giggled once. "Is _your_ place like this every day?"

Asriel hummed a murmur. "Well, no. Not exactly."

"Right," Santa said, with a nod. "Even here at the North Pole, we get sick of the holidays. The fact that Christmas comes only once a year is what makes its special."

Asriel, drawn to his thoughts, blinked. "I've seen a few cartoons…" he mused. Another question sprang to mind: "How come nobody's ever found this place? I've heard that a lot of people have travelled to the North Pole, but I don't think I've heard anything about…"

"This place is more hidden that you think…" Santa tapped his nose. "The Arctic can be a deceptive place."

Ahead, there lay the landing pad; a platform in the shape of a hexagon outlined with bright lights impossible to miss. How could it not be the landing pad? Santa Claus guided them in slow and steady. They dropped down and down until the runners made contact with a bump, signifying a safe landing.

Just when the boy thought it was over, they began to drop again. He sat there awestruck as the pad descended to the whirling of metal, and the corners rose up around him before cutting him off from the clear, star-filled night sky.

In this brightly lit interior, the cosy, Christmas smells gave way to gasoline and motor oil. Asriel looked down over the side and witnessed first-hand several rows of sleighs. He knew exactly where he was: this was Santa's garage, and these were all his humble rides from over the ages. Sleighs from every decade of every century, painted in colours of vibrant red and warm brown; some as ancient as time itself. He found one sleigh which could second as an emergency dinghy from a sinking pirate ship, then found another sleigh fashioned heavily around a 1950s Chevrolet.

Over by the far wall was the large booth of the control station, manned by two figures made unidentifiable from behind tinted windows.

From the speakers above, a voice, which was not Albert's, spoke: "Another perfect landing."

"Thank you, Armstrong," Santa said whilst stepping out of his ride, taking a moment to help the goat boy out as well.

Asriel felt a solid sense of pride at the exact moment his bare feet made felt solid ground – the chilly concrete of Santa's garage. Not only was he the first kid setting foot within Saint Nick's domain in a long time, but he was also the first monster kid to do so. Frisk was going to be so jealous when they hear about this, but not nearly as jealous as Papyrus.

A door at the side of the booth opened and out stepped two figures; one was the guy from the screen and the other was carrying a clipboard and dressed in a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants and shoes, and a headset. As they waddled down the metal, circular steps, Asriel could not help but notice their heights. These guys were human in shape, but not in the average stature that he had seen.

The figures, Albert and the other – whom Asriel could only assume was Armstrong – reached the floor; the clanking of leather shoes against metal grating was replaced with loud tapping against bare concrete as they made their way straight down the aisle of rides from the ages, toward their master, and the guest on honour. Quite pasty from that distance, Asriel might add.

"That was the first close-call in a long time," Albert, Santa's own personal helper, said, "We thought we had to break out the funeral arrangements from your _Over-Fifty Plan._ " The snap of his steps punctuated his advance. "Sixteen-Fifties."

"Not yet, my good man," Santa replied.

Albert turned to the kid, the guest for the night, who had taken off his hat. "And it's nice to see a new guest for this year."

The other, Armstrong, took one look at the furry thing before the words he prepared stumbled in his oesophagus. "What is that?"

Young Asriel Dreemurr stopped in his tracks. First Albert on the screen, and now this. For the second time since they met, he witnessed Santa Claus harness a serious, laughless tone:

"Now, now, Armstrong, don't be rude," he said matter-of-factly and without a shred of nonsense. "This young gentleman is our guest for the evening. His name is…" Santa stopped, blinked, and then gave the boy an encouraging pat on the back. "Go on, lad. Introduce yourself."

Being nudged forward, Asriel came toe to toe with Albert and Armstrong. Upon closer inspection, Asriel did not wish to admit that he was as weirded out as the other fellas were. Both men were roughly his height, and Armstrong had a pudgy nose, plump cheeks, eyes twice the size of a regular human, and fleshy points poking out from behind the headset. The elves before him had never encountered a monster in their lives, and in all fairness, Asriel could only say the same thing about elves.

Nevertheless, he made a conscience effort. "Howdy. I'm Asriel. Asriel Dreemurr," he introduced himself. As far as introductions went, his was rather meek in the way he half-heartedly extended a hand to shake, the volume of his voice, and the brief moments of eye-contact.

The butler took it gently. "Nice to mee you, Asriel. I'm Albert, Santa's personal assistant."

Armstrong noticed Asriel was glancing at what appeared from under his headset.

"Are you… an elf, too?" Asriel dared to ask.

Armstrong confirmed this by pulling back one of his headphones, displaying an exact same large, pointy ear as the personal assistant at his side. The edge glistened like a knife the florescent light for the child to ponder over.

"And you're a…?" Armstrong asked.

"I'm from the Underground. Under Mount Ebott, I mean."

The controller elf, Armstrong, raised his eyebrows. "Ah, so you're one of those monsters I've heard about," he said. In the next notion, he straightened himself out. "My bad. You know, I've seen quite a few lucky youngsters hop off that sleigh behind you, but none as… unique as yourself." He passed the clipboard into one hand and it came time for his handshake with the special guest. "Allow us to be your official welcome to the Workshop."

"Uh, thanks," Asriel said as he took the awaiting hand, shook it, and discovered the one person in the entire northern hemisphere with the most ironic name ever. Armstrong's arms held the same amount of strength found in limp noodles.

Santa positioned himself beside them and joyfully rubbed the backs of their heads.

"There we go, that's what I like to see. We're all jolly good friends here at the North Pole."

Armstrong continued, "Before your tour, I would like you—" he presented the clipboard and a pen before the boy "—to read and sign this contract." He pointed to two dotted lines at the top and bottom of the page. "Place your name here and here, please."

While he took the pen and board, Asriel scanned the print.

_I, …., vow to be on my best behaviour… Child must be accompanied by Santa Claus at all times… Do not touch anything unless permitted to do so… The Workshop is not responsible for injury or… anything really bad happening during the duration of the tour…_

"Is this place dangerous?" Asriel asked while he wrote his name on the first line.

"Of course not. Safety is our number one priority here," Armstrong said. "It's a legal requirement, really, we have every child sign one." Asriel finished his second signature and handed the clipboard and pen back. After a quick inspection, he was satisfied. "Very good. Hope you enjoy the North Pole."

The jolly man, in his jolly mood, guided his guest for the night across the floor, toward an open garage door. Albert followed behind. He stopped to unbutton his coat, remove his hat and gloves, and place them both on a lone coat hanger oddly placed beside the door. The six-packed Santa suggested to Asriel that he should do the same, and he complied. He placed the newly-acquired winter clothes on the pegs until he was down to his woolly jumper, jeans, and a scarf. The coat hanger then sank into an opening in the ground. Santa told him they were being moved to another location and that he would get them back alter. With that, the two stepped out into the same cobbled streets they observed from high above, now below their soles.

* * *

The red SUV flew upwards into the night sky, scattering in its contrail a fine mist of frozen particles as dazzling in the moonlight as a river of silver. Asgore had his digits firm on the wheel – ten and two – as they descended higher and higher, checking his mirrors and speedometer every few seconds, like every responsible driver should.

The stop for gas was a painless task; however, taking the car through the drive-thru beforehand proved the hardest part, mostly due to how long it took for minds to be made up.

In the middle seats, Alphys nibbled away at fry after fry from a large tub, ignorant to her girlfriend's disapproval, while Sans, with a handful of free sachets, clipped one after another between his teeth and drained it dry.

Alphys tore his attention away from her meal to shoot a glance over her shoulder. "Are you gonna share those?"

Frisk munched away at kid's meals that came wrapped up in friendly, colourful boxes which contained fries, a burger, and a nice toy to play with afterwards. Another kid's meal lay in the empty seat in the back, reserved for the missing member of their flock.

Alphys stopped short of mouthing another fry of the French to say something. "Feels like something's missing."

Asgore sank back in his seat. A sombre drape fell over him. "I know, I know," the father said, seeing his son's faint image alight in the stars. "I, too, am worried for Asriel."

"A-actually, I…" Alphys muttered as she shot glances behind herself.

The goat king went on, "It's a dangerous world out there for a young boy."

"T-t-that's not what…"

"And there's no telling what that man could be like on the inside."

"I was th-thinking…"

"But we'll get him back, and when we do, we'll—"

Alphys said in a loud, broken voice, "Where did Papyrus go?"

Asgore's speech ended and he looked at the rear-view mirror to find Frisk, Alphys, Undyne, Sans, and… and…

He gasped. "We left him at the gas station!" Then he jerked the wheel tightly to the right.

* * *

Santa Claus and Albert accompanied the guest of honour down those shovelled streets of red and white. The buildings around them with their bright walls and rounded windows of frosted glass emitted such vibrancy and heat that it warmed them to the core. Asriel sniffed the air. Those aromas from before were but traces. The full force of that mixed scent was sweeter than any candy; a smell which transported him to a place thought impossible – a place which existed only in fairy-tales.

Between the roofs, the night sky dazzled with millions of stars, alight in a stargazer's paradise. The surrounding lamps and shop windows failed to impede such a sight.

More elves – short men, woman, and children with pointy ears and large eyes and puffy cheeks – passed them, each full of festive goodwill, and not a striped pair of tights or bell-adorned hat in sight. Their dress sense was quite modern. They warmly greeted their master before enthusiastically seizing the fuzzy hand of their guest; the one lucky child from the outside who got to experience the wonder which was Santa's Workshop. Turned out, to shake the hand of a lucky kid was considered an elven tradition of good luck. Whatever luck the child possessed would be passed onto them, in theory.

Sweet shops with candy of all colours of the rainbow drew Asriel to press his snout against the glass; jawbreakers and gobstoppers and golden toffees and oozing caramel made his mouth water. The next building, a bakery, showed massive lines of conveyor belts, churning out a stream of cupcakes into these machines. On the other side, they came out decorated with creamy toppings of chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, lemon, orange, blueberry, cherry and raspberry. So many cakes to choose from, so little room in one's belly.

The next building they passed whiffed so strongly with chocolate, that it could almost grab Asriel by the nose and drag him in.

Mr Claus chuckled. "Few can resist such an alluring temptation," he said, "and, fortunately for you, I'm not one of them."

He pushed open the door to the jangle of an overhead bell to allow the boy and his butler to enter first before doing so himself. In the foyer, several more elves sat around circular tables twiddling on phones. Cups of hot chocolate had long since went cold. Here, the chocolate scent was thickest; so thick that every breath felt like a mouthful.

At the far end stood the counter no taller than Asriel's shoulders, and behind it stood vats full to the brim with bubbling, swirling, steaming liquid coco. The place beyond the customer area resembled a steelworks, with moulds where the chocolate would solidify into thick blocks, bunnies, reindeer and snowmen.

An elf in an apron appeared behind the counter. "Welcome back, Master Claus," he greeted. "The usual?"

"And a warm mug for our friend here," Santa replied.

He spotted the goat boy, reflexed with surprise, and then snapped his fingers. "Comin' right up!"

He reached under the counter and placed three large, white porcelain mugs on the top, lining them up in a neat little row. A mechanical spout passed over each cup and poured in chocolate into each one. Different arms holding jugs and bowls of varying ingredients unfolded outwards from the ceiling and descended on the drinks in a show worthy of any gadgeteer's dream; one poured in cinnamon and peppermint into the first mug before topping it with whipped cream, another laced the second cup with cherry juice and maple syrup, and the third was simply topped with whipped cream and a roasted marshmallow.

Santa gripped the third mug by the top and offered it to the boy. "Here you go, lad. Watch the first sip."

Asriel gingerly took the cup; by the handle and the body. Surprisingly, the decorative outside was not scolding at all, it was cool and fitted snugly in his mitts. The contents were the perfect temperature as he sipped, taking in plenty of chocolate and whipped cream.

His mouth and senses exploded with flavour. So thick. So rich. It danced with delight on his tongue. The sweet and frothy cream melted into the drink. It sank down his throat and spread warmth out to the tips of his fingers and toes. Asriel nearly choked at how heavenly it was.

"It's a doozy," Santa laughed and took the other two drinks and handed them to his butler, Albert, while the boy coughed up a storm. He and the worker elf shared an acknowledging glance. Every time. Asriel Dreemurr wasn't the first child to be blown away by the quality of their cocoa, and he wouldn't be the last.

* * *

Ten minutes later, they were ascending back through the air. Papyrus was wedged in the back, beside his bro.

"Wowie, that was fun," Papyrus said, a joyous hint in his voice. "You should leave me at gas stations more often."

Their skeleton companion was back; however, something still felt amiss. A seat where their white, furry goat of a companion would reside in lay empty.

"As I was saying," King Asgore said. "Family is important, and we don't give up on family. No matter what, we will never let go of one of our own."

Suddenly, Asgore's phone, in its holder on the dashboard, buzzed. _Bergentrückung_ filled the grease-scented compartment.

"Can someone answer that, please? I obviously can't," asked Asgore. Undyne reached her long arm between the seats and pressed the green button, activating speakerphone. "Howd—"

"ASGORE DREEMURR!" the receiver screeched with Toriel's voice. Everyone jumped out their seats. The vehicle jerked as the steel fingers around the steering wheel fumbled. "YOU GET BACK HERE, RIGHT NOW!"

The former king thought the front passenger seat was a little bare. The driver shared a nervous glance with the others through the rear-view mirror before turning the car back around again.

* * *

"And here is where we keep the reindeer."

The grand tour had led the goat guest of the night to the farm kept around the outskirts of town. Far from the hustle and bustle. An actual farm on the North Pole sounded impossible, and yet here it was with green grass to nuzzle on.

The pen itself was large and full of an earthy air. There were large huts, eight in total, dotted around the enclosure. The legendary eight trotted happily within. Large, proud creatures with huge antlers and brown fur.

Santa pointed to the nearest one, motioning to a strange mark on the right thigh. It looked like a pair of dancing slippers. "There's Dancer," he said.

Asriel noticed the mark on another, shaped like a fox.

"And there's Vixen," Santa said, pointing him out.

The birthmark on another of the reindeer appeared to be a rock with a zoom behind it.

Asriel traced his finger to that one and guessed, "Comet?"

"Right you are, lad," answered Santa.

One of the reindeer approached, trotting on his four hooves, bringing his powerful frame (as big as a garage) over. Asriel didn't notice him until his snout was in his face; he flinched before recognising this one by the glowing red on the tip of the nose.

The reindeer bowed his head over the fence post, and Santa said, "Good ahead. Rudolph doesn't bite."

Asriel – always as reluctant as ever – slowly extended a hand, fearing those massive teeth would take it off in a single chomp.

"N-nice, Rudolph…"

His fingers tested the texture of Rudolph's fur, then his entire palm. He petted the reindeer in an affectionate manner and heard him hum, satisfied. His red nose grew in brightness and intensity, turning from a dim spark to a full radiance that turned his own fur into the same shade.

"That means he's happy," Santa explained, partly shielding his eyes. "He likes you."

Afterwards, Santa Claus led Asriel Dreemurr around the rest of the farm, pointing to all the different pens.

"Here, in this farm, we produce only the finest ingredients for our food.

"Over there are the chicken coops, where our feathered friends just love to dance about. The eggs they lay are the key ingredients in our cakes, making them delightfully fluffy and rich.

"And over there is where the coos go moo. Their milk is the creamiest to be found on planet Earth. Our whipped cream is the best in the world, hands down, no contest.

"All the way at the far end, the busy bees produce the sweetest honey. Folks describe it like melting gold.

"And for the finest, silkiest, and most moreish cheeses, we—"

Santa stopped upon finding that the boy was no longer beside him. He spotted Asriel not too far away, gazing wide-eyed and unblinking into another pen. Dozens of white-furred animals, parading on four legs, hooved feet, ambling the enclosure and nuzzling at the grass.

Three particular creatures caught Asriel's attention and refused to let go. They must have been a family; a momma with small horns, a papa with large horns and longer hair on the chin, and a little child hobbling on all fours and with a tiny quiff of fur between the ears. They bleated and shook their floppy ears before turning their long, thin faces and glassy, dark eyes toward him, and all he could do was gaze back.

The sign before him was as clear as day:

**The Goat Pen**

Santa urgently ushered Asriel away. "Uh, how about we move on?" he said. "Don't, err, think too much into that, my boy."


	14. This is Santa's Big Scene

Another ten minutes and three dollars fifty on a large block of chocolate later, the Dreemurrs and crew were rising upward for the third time that night, now with everyone in the car. They triple checked to be sure. The last thing they needed was Alphys freaking out at the side of the road, or Undyne getting so mad that the cars pulling in for fuel weren't safe.

Asgore gingerly glanced at his wife over from him, and the occupants in the back were eerily quiet. Toriel had her arms folded and the sourest expression on her face. The chocolate block half eaten in clenched hand. It was one of those limited edition, festive confectionaries full of the candy which popped and crackled in your mouth, danced like fireworks on your tongue, and drowned out your thoughts.

"…Honey?" Asgore dared to ask after some hesitation, "Feeling any better?" He then braced himself for the off chance of a harsh rebuttal. Heck hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Toriel bit off another chunk of chocolate. The fizzing noises could be faintly heard around the compartment. Her venomous gaze switched to him. "I am starting to get over it," she responded, laced with a menacing undertone. "Just get us to the North Pole."

"Yes, Ma'am."

* * *

The double doors parted and in entered the jolly saint himself along with the boy. Asriel took another swig of his hot chocolate, finding it just as warm as the second it got poured. He wondered where they were off to next, having been to where the candy canes were swirled and where the wrapping paper was printed and chocolate reindeers were poured.

"And this," Santa said, – although this place needed no introduction – "is the Workshop."

Asriel gasped and his mouthful nearly went down the wrong day. It was as wondrous as one would imagine. Lines of benches from one end of the room to the other were laden with teddy bears, toy trains, toy cars, figurines, and toys of all shapes and sizes. More elves, in blue jumpsuits, tended to them.

He was awestruck. "Do you deliver these all across the world?"

"Nowadays," Santa explained, "everyone buys their own gifts. These toys are for the ones who need it most: the forgotten children. Those doomed to a lonely Christmas without any family, friends or presents. Can you imagine waking up on Christmas Day with nothing to open?" The weight he placed in his words could make a demon cry, and Asriel suddenly regretted asking that question. "It's unthinkable. Unimaginable. I try so hard every year to get a present to everyone… but it's still not enough." He stood up straight and sighed. "My dream one day is for a world where everyone has a present to open on the big day."

A nearby door swung ajar and in walked an elderly woman in a thick cardigan and long skirt, holding a tray of muffins. She appeared old, yet an abundance of life glowed off her rosy features. _Healthy_ was the word that defined her. Her hair was white and curled up. Her face was kind, with caring hazel eyes behind a pair of small, thin-rimmed glasses, and curved, benevolent lips. Asriel could tell by her height that she was no elf.

Two elves were offered a muffin each before she smiled at the cups in Albert's possession. "Is that my order, I see?" she asked.

With a spring in his step, Santa took the cup, hopped over and gave her a peck on the cheek. "You know I'd never forget about you, my dear."

The lady lifted her tray slightly. "Thanks. Place it on my tray, please."

Santa did so before wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Asriel, I'd like you to meet my wife, Sarah. Sarah, this is our guest, Asriel."

Sarah Claus. The Mrs Claus. Not an actor or a character in a book, but the official, real deal. The air around her felt warm and inviting.

She lit up upon seeing the lad. As she put the tray down at a nearby spot, she said, "Hello there!" It wasn't long before she had him by the cheeks, pinching divots into them. Such fussiness. It reminded him of his mom. "Aren't you simply the cutest thing? I have something for you." Sarah Claus went back over to the tray of muffins, picked one, and brought it back. "This is for you."

Asriel said a quiet thank you as he took the cake, topped with hearty chunks of toffee, and took a little bit. The tiny nibble was enough to almost knock him off his feet.

"Feel free to look around," Santa said.

The appealing usage of lively colours drew Asriel's eyes to the array of benches, lined all the way across the expanse. His own feet controlled themselves, guided by his curiosity fed by the fairy dust in the air. Without thinking, he wolfed down the rest of the muffin, the last drops of hot chocolate, then ate the mug as well, finding it sweet and morish.

Overhead, large signs hung down to separate the benches. 0 to 1 years; rattles and oversized sets of colourful keys no toddler could ever fit in their mouth. 1 to 3 years; bears that talked when squeezed, and little peekaboo switches. 3 to 5 years. 5 to 7 years. 7 to 9 years. 9 to 11 years, and so on. He saw choo-choo trains painted in rainbow colours, and all sorts of neat gifts one would expect to find within Santa's Workshop. There were others though...

He rounded one of the benches without taking a moment to check the age group and examined the selections of toys on offer. A particular one reached out to his boyish manner and gripped his attention; an action figure. Asriel reached over and plucked it out. Unfamiliar, but cool nonetheless. The ten foot figure was of a tall, strong man with bulging biceps, triceps, pecks and a six pack all visible under a tight superhero costume the colour of ice, with a dark blue cape to boot. He had a square jaw, a manly white grin, strong blue eyes, and combed back blonde hair. He held a staff that was taller than he was, and adorned with an unrecognisable symbol at the top which matched the one on his chest.

Asriel, absorbed, jumped at the feel of someone's presence beside him. There was one of the elves at his side. On his jumpsuit was a badge: _Hello, my name is Oslo_.

"I see you've met Anthony Ice," Oslo said, eyeing the action figure.

Asriel raised an eyebrow. "Anthony Ice?" he repeated the name like it was the punchline to a bad joke.

Oslo rolled his eyes and shook his head, sighing with a wince. "Ten hours sweating in a think-tank to come up with that," he said. "Ice Man was taken, Captain Cold's a supervillain, Mister Freeze's a tragic villain, and Frozone would've been perfect had Disney not nicked it at the last minute." He gestured to the toy in hand. "Anyway, back to Anthony, he shoot ice beams out of his staff and can cover himself in ice as armour. He can change the weather, and fly – oh, and he talks! Just push the button on his back."

Turning over the figure and brushing up the rubbery cape revealed a square outline carved into Anthony's chiselled back muscles. Asriel used his thumb to press the button:

"Let's put these bozos on ice!"

Asriel cocked his head to the side and clicked the button again:

"How 'bout we put some ice on that?"

Oslo found the kid shoot a glance at him, as if to say 'are you serious?' And yet, the button was pressed a third time:

"Better watch the clock, 'cause it's ice-kickin' time!"

The hard-working elf absorbed Asriel's puzzled look. "What do ya think? Pretty... cool, huh?" The shrewd negotiator grinned and held his hands up all clever-like, having made his sales pitch. "Ay?" He leaned closer. "Ay?" Closer. "Ay?"

Anthony Ice was set back down where he was found. "I'll, uh, pass," Asriel said.

The figure lost balance and landed flat on his perfect face, symbolising Oslo's mood. Back to the drawing board.

Another elf – her hair long and auburn, face plump and friendly – rounded the bench, a dog toy nestled in the palms of her hands. _Hello, my name is Carol._

"Maybe you want something a little more cutsie-wootsie?" she said in an accent straight out of a country song.

She made room on the worn, scraped wood of the bench for the little dog to stand on. The pup itself was a Border Collie; its fur a patchwork of black and white.

"That's cute," said Asriel. "Let me guess: does it flip?"

After a dismissive hand wave, Carol delved into her pocket and pulled out a plastic bone the perfect size for the undersized dog. "That's so twenty years ago." She dropped the bone behind the dog and, like a predator seeking its prey, barked a tiny, electric bark and swung around on the wheels build under its paws. It lowered its head to the tiny din of clanking gears and clamped the bone in its mouth.

A small flash of admiration flashed across the guest's face, especially as the tiny dog brought the bone back to its master and dropped it. Mechanics had even been installed into the tail to make it wag.

Asriel had a small, satisfied smile on his face, beset by the smiles of those around him. "That's not bad, actually," he said.

"There's more." Carol clapped her hands. "Speak."

The toy barked.

"Do a backflip."

The toy performed a backflip.

Asriel said, "Wait, didn't you say—?"

Carol interrupted: "Lie down."

The toy extended its legs and lay flat.

"Now sleep."

The doggie toy, with more clicking on mechanical insides, dipped its head down and closed its eyes.

Asriel stroked his chin. Something told him that Alphys would adore two of these; one to cherish and the other to pull apart to see how it functioned.

Without warning, the sleeping dog was brushed away by another, much to Carol's shock.

"Bah!" said a third elf. _Hello, my name is Steve._ "That ain't a toy for boys." He slammed a miniature robot down. "This is a toy for boys."

One foot tall and as blocky as a sixteen wheeler, the robot had a big square head with two antennas sticking out of the top, two glowing yellow eyes and a rectangular grate for a mouth. A rectangular block composed the torso, with two arms bent at ninety degrees and two legs which crawled forwards at a snail's pace.

"Crush!" it threatened. "Destroy!" it announced. "Vaporise!" it vowed.

"Don't these already exist?" Asriel asked in all earnest.

Steve pulled a cocky smile. "Well, for your information..." Then... his mouth remained open in that self-confident fashion. He remained as still as a statue for several seconds before taking the robot and sulking away.

Santa walked over.

"Come with me, lad. Now's time for something very special."

* * *

How exactly an SUV could pull over onto the side and apply the handbrake in mid-air was anyone's guess, but Asgore did it anyway. The night stretched endlessly all around; the headlights could only illuminate so much.

"Honey, would you be so kind as to pass me the roadmap?" he asked his wife. "It should be in the glove compartment."

Toriel pulled the handle and the compartment popped open on its on inertia. Inside, the folded map was barely visible over the car manual, wedged beside an empty packet of toffees, and under four pairs of 3D glasses all still in their plastic packets. What a farce they turned out to be. Toriel dragged the map from its encampment and handed it over to Asgore, and he proceeded to unfold it over the steering wheel.

"Let's see…" the king murmured. He had the map open in its entirety, the wheel formed a circular protuberance in its centre. He rotated it left and right to get his bearings. "We turned off at Winnipeg… turned right at Minnesota… took a short cut over New York, and took another right near Maine…" With a raised finger, he reached his conclusion. "I think we're lost."

Every other passenger shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Everyone except Sans; he had fallen asleep in his comfy corner.

Asgore turned over his shoulder. "Should we ask for directions?" he asked, which conjured a bizarre image of asking the inhabitants of a nearby jumbo jet for instructions on how to reach their destination. "Or does anyone else have any suggestions?"

Undyne said, "Yeah, I think we've all got an idea on how to reach the North Pole."

"Really? What's that?"

Everyone besides him answered in loud union:

"GO NORTH!"

Sans remained out cold.

Asgore let it sink in for a moment. The clue was in the name. The North Pole. The North Pole. North Pole. North Pole. North. Pole. North. North. North.

He silently disengaged the handbrake and turned the vehicle until the pointed in the direction of North, and obviously toward the North Pole.

The magic of riding in a flying car had long worn off, now it just felt normal. The greasy grub was all gone, nothing but empties remained; Frisk had already grown bored of their toy. There was nothing else to occupy their minds except for the county music on the radio.

The next instant, the fine guitar strings were cut off by a deafening screech of static. After a moment, it ended and a voice spoke through the speakers:

_"Unidentified aircraft,"_ said a man with a tone shrouded in a grainy buzz, _"you are trespassing on forbidden airspace."_

As loud as the scratching of nails on chalkboard static was, it was replaced by roars from behind. Zooming roars, the kind found in high-powered engines and thrusters. Kind Asgore shot shocked glances into each side mirror and spotted the imposing, grey silhouettes of jet fighters in each one.

_Objects in mirror are closer than they appear._

_"You have twenty seconds to identify yourself or we'll be forced to remove you by any means necessary."_

Asgore slowly faced his passengers, and they mirrored his terrified expression.

_"You now have fifteen seconds to comply."_

The King pressed his head back against the rest. "Ummmm…"

* * *

Through a second set of double doors at the other end of the workshop, the two appeared to what looked like some kind of gallery. In neat, polished display cases lined up in neat rows, gadgets and gizmos of shapes, sizes and complexity lay still. Asriel felt himself jump upon glimpsing some demonic fangs from a nearby case.

"And now, my dear lay," Santa said, having led the guest to a door at the far end of the workshop, "to my most guarded secret."

This door was the most high-tech, impenetrable thing Asriel had ever seen, more unpassable than the barrier under Mount Ebott. A slab of titanium, complete with visible gears and locks. No crowbar could force it. No explosive could dent it. No battering ram could shove it. One would need to be a superhero to pass it without the proper credentials. To the side was a panel, and Santa has already gotten to work; he swiped a key card, entered a twenty digit code into a keypad, pressed his eyes against an eyepiece, spoke his name into a microphone…

Outside the door, nailed and plastered over the decorated colouring, Asriel read an abundance of caution signs which got newer and newer the closer they got to the floor.

_No running._

_No shouting._

_Keep your arms and legs inside at all times._

_No sketching._

_No charcoal drawing._

_No painting._

_No oil painting._

_No pastels._

_No photography._

_No flash photography._

_No photos._

_No digital photos._

_No selfies._

_No tweets._

_No snaps._

_No snapchats._

_No live streaming._

_In fact, no pictures of any kind._

Santa Claus, while pressing his hand against a scanner, eyed the last sign at the exact moment Asriel did. "I probably should have put up that last sign without faffing on with the others," he said. "It's getting quite hard to keep up with the times these days."

As Santa yanked out a single strand of his facial fuzz and placed it on a waiting insert, Asriel asked, "Am I to sign another contract? Take a blood oath, or agree to have my memory erased or…?"

His question was answered with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"Nothing of the sort," Santa said while entering his secret handshake against a robotic hand.

"But aren't you afraid that I'll tell?"

"Not at all. Tell as many people as you'd like." Santa imputed a very long and complicated password on a keyboard. "And the Tooth Fairy lives on Saturn, and Count Dracula's an accountant in Denmark."

With the final press of the button, the panel beeped in an approving manner. It took the door a full minute to fully unlock; to Asriel, it felt like one hour. He quivered with anticipation, struggling to keep still. Something hidden behind that much security just had to be mindboggling. Just think, he was the first child from the Underground to glimpse the biggest secret from the fabled saint.

The hinges churned with the same drone of a safe being opened. A cold blast of air escaped. No light, complete blackness. Not even light could penetrate such a secret.

Santa Claus entered first, vanishing into the darkness, like his whole existence was fake and he had returned to the land of imagination. Asriel teetered over to the threshold and stopped, feeling hesitation. The inside remained pitch black except for the metre of floor leading in. No sound escaped, not even Santa's footsteps could be heard. Anything could be hiding back there; the opportune moment for a trap, a sneak attack.

Asriel rubbed his brow and sighed. There was Undyne talking in his head. One of her many tips, tricks and lessons from one of the many times both she and Alphys had agreed to look after himself and Frisk.

"Come on in, lad," Santa's voice pierced the emptiness. "Nothing to be afraid of in here."

The boy gripped his fingers, feeling a tingle of fiery heat flow through them. If something sinister did lurk behind that veil, then it wouldn't expect someone who could fight back with magic. He entered, walking five steps on the path of light before the heavy door clamped shut behind him.

As if instinctual, Asriel conjured two fireballs in his hands at the sound of the slam, illuminating the air with a flicker of orange, red and yellow.

"Please, my friend, put your magic away." Santa sounded from somewhere ahead and a little to the left. "You won't need that here."

From twenty feet up, Asriel first thought his was imagining it, but a double take and a couple blinks proved a single dot of light to be true. The dot, no bigger than a star in the night, persisted in the space until it was accompanied by another speck right next to it, so close that the two almost become one. Another appeared, bringing the count to three. Three became four. Four became five. Five became nine. Nine became twenty. Twenty became fifty. Fifty became a hundred. They multiplied by the dozens, then the hundreds, then the thousands.

The dots took shape into a boot with an uncomfortably high heel and small toe. It rang a bell in Asriel's head thanks to paying attention in Geography class.

"That looks like…" He snapped his fingers; the name was on the tip of his tongue. "Italy."

Santa – barely visible in the dimness – smiled and nodded. "A clever lad, as well," he mused.

The dots spread, forming more clusters and curving into the shape of a giant ball.

"If that's Italy, then…" Asriel traced his finger across. "That's… France? And that's, uh, Germany." He pointed as they appeared, putting his limited knowledge to the test. "The United Kingdom. Spain. Africa. Europe. China. Austria – I mean, Australia." The safe room became light enough to make out a grated walkway that formed a perfect circle, cordoned with guardrails. Asriel followed the path anticlockwise around. "North America. South America."

The whole globe was alive in a cascade of stars, including stray dots out in the empty spaces of the world's seas, and in the uninhabited regions across the world. A massive hologram world in the centre of Santa's Workshop.

Separated by the world, Santa Claus and Asriel Dreemurr stood on opposite ends of the walkway, yet could see each other as clear as crystal through it.

Santa gradually swiped his hand across. "Every single one of these dots is a believer. Every man, woman and child full of Christmas spirit."

Asriel gazed up at it, completely in awe, unable to form words of his own.

Santa continued, "Every day sees people lose faith, and many more finding it. As long as they keep the spirit of goodwill alive in their hearts, Christmas will live on… and I will live on."

Asriel looked down to him. "Huh?" he said. "You will… live on?"

"I've been doing this for over one-and-a-half thousand years."

"You've been Santa Claus for so long." The boy began to round back around the walkway. "How do you do it?"

"I've found," he said, "I don't do it for myself." His attention was drawn once more to the world of light. "I do it for all those people, for those who believe and those who don't."

Questions swam within Asriel's head. "You're going to do this forever, aren't you?" he said in a voice that got lower with every syllable. "Forever and ever… and ever… and ever…"

The saint, in light of that revelation, simply shrugged. He had reached that conclusion a long time ago himself. "I'll be doing this until the day the world no longer needs me. One day, Christmas will step aside and a new celebration will take over. When that day comes, I can finally rest easy knowing I did my part during the darkest of days."

The goat boy felt the corners of his lips rise in admiration. Santa walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"How have you found tonight, my boy?" he asked.

"Great," Asriel said, nodding, a bounce in his stance. "This was great. I've enjoyed myself a lot, thanks."

"That's wonderful, because, sadly, this concludes our tour of the Workshop."

Asriel could not help but let out an audible 'awwwww' at the sound of that.

"All good things must come to an end." Santa ruffled the wisps of hair of the boy's head. "But just imagine, lad. You'll be the only person in your school who has been to the North Pole." Then came a pat on the back. "Come on, let's get you home."

He led Asriel back toward the reinforced door. The radio next to it blared:

"Master. Master Claus. Do you read me?" They recognised the voice: it was Armstrong, the man with the weakest arms.

Santa showed little emergency as he pressed the receiver button. Someone probably misplaced the toner ink… again. "Loud and clear," he answered. "What's the problem?"

"It's, err, your sleigh, sir," the elf on the other end replied. "After we gave it every check and scan we could, we were giving it its regular wash and polish when we found something stuck on the back of the rail." The quake in his breath could be heard from the other side. "We think it might be a tracker."

Santa's brow furrowed. "A tracker?" he echoed.

Whatever Armstrong had to say next was overwhelmed by a gargle of white noise. A buzz and a click sounded. The next voice to seep from the speaker was the last one he wanted to hear that night:

"Found you, Nicholas."


	15. Baby, It's Cold Outside

The sound of her speaking down his ear sent a shiver of dread down Santa's spine. Her disguised voice had intruded upon his home, the one place where he thought himself safe, untouchable, hidden from the rest of the world. More and more, she continued to drive herself deeper into his mind, treating all this as one would play a game, playing him like he was a violin, a piece on a chessboard. She always knew; she knew where he was going to be, always knew his next two moves before he made them.

The white fur of the boy beside him stood out in the dimness. Years without an incident – or an invasion for that matter – and it was during a tour.

"Gotta say," Prophet's voice continued to haunt him. Coming out a static mess. "Your home was exceptionally hard to find. Thanks for leading me straight to it; you're far too kind."

Santa was speechless. He turned to Asriel, who gazed back with a blank expression that mirrored his own.

"My wife," he muttered, turning from grated floor to obscured ceiling. "My people."

The intercom crackled once more. "Relax. It's not them I'm after," Prophet said, "sadly, however, I can't speak the same for my new friends."

New friends? From his end, Santa heard the zap of a laser being fired and recognised it in a heartbeat. This was followed by a sound like fur stretching, and stuffing overfilling, and the snarl of a ferocious, salivating beast. Prophet didn't need an army, he had so generously supplied one for her. Beyond those words, she would be zipping around on her bike, cackling like a witch as she gave life to his creations.

Through it all, he managed to keep his composure. "Oh, my dear…" The added surety peppered his words. "You are determined to top the naughty list, aren't you?"

There was no delay in Prophet's response. "You really think so?" she asked. "Then I guess you won't mind if I take a little peek for myself. You never know, I could be on the nice list. I'd imagine you'd keep them in your own home. Find me there… if you can make it, old man."

One last crackle made the intercom go silent.

"M-Mister Santa?" Asriel, lost and muddled up in all this confusion, looked up. "Who was that?"

"A pest," he replied. "When you live as long as I have, you can't not develop competition."

"You've dealt with her kind before?"

"I fight criminals in my spare time. I've handled worse."

"What could she possibly want with the lists?"

Santa paused. Ancient scrolls taken from a mage's tomb. A series of unconnected components. The naughty and nice lists – records of every man, woman and child in the world.

"Now is not the time," Santa said, spewing out puffs of white air. He reached for the boy. "We need to get you to safety."

Young Asriel avoided his grasp with trembling movements. "Why does she want that list?" he repeated his question as he hugged his body.

"Asriel, please. Now is not… the time…" A chill like no other spread goosebumps over his exposed forearms. He noticed his guest was chattering his teeth with increased intensity. "Boy… I don't remember it being this cold…"

The corners grew cobwebs of frost. Fingers of ice crept up from around the only entrance. Santa slammed the button to disengage the lock only to hear the churn of frozen gears.

Feeling the cold sweat freeze along the lines of his scalp, Santa exhaled a puff of white. He wondered what could be causing such a—?

"Lad, get down!"

He pushed the goat boy to the floor in a leaping tackle, splaying them across the walkway as the ingot of an entrance exploded outwards in frozen fragments. Pieces of metal entombed in ice made a pincushion out of the hologram room, embedding and piercing the walls. The globe itself waved and distorted and flickered as the shards past through it. Amazingly, neither Santa nor Asriel were hit.

Through the newly-formed hole where the door once imposed, a mighty figure of six-and-a-half-foot in height – obscured from eyes not used to the brightness – entered without their feet moving, or even touching the ground. A cape flapped on its own accord, as if there were a constant wind breezing against it, and was a darker shade of the shade of blue that made up the bodysuit. Eyes the colour of ice found the pair, and those same peepers were attached to a beautiful face with prominent cheekbones, strong jaw, blonde hair, and a dimpled chin.

"Anthony Ice?" Santa muttered. "What has she done to you?"

The superhero landed with a downward thrust of his staff, sending a shockwave through the walkway that rattled throughout the room.

"Better set the alarm," Anthony said as he turned the staff in both hands, "'cause it's ice-kickin' time!"

The metal snowflake on top was pointed at the duo and a beam of blue light shot out across the room.

Without thinking for his own safety, Asriel Dreemurr threw himself to the side and shunted Santa out of the way. Leaned against the railing, the saint heard a whoosh followed by the crackle of ice. He turned to find the goat boy stood motionless in place; hands out in front, teeth clenched, and eyes shut permanently by the ice that layered them. Asriel had been covered in ice, completely frozen from head to toe, trapped forever demonstrating how willing he was to sacrifice himself for another.

Anthony Ice, at the sight of a monster Popsicle, churned out another of his stocky phrases: "Chill out, punk."

"A-Asriel…" Santa Claus found the superhero, who was smiling with the same manly, heroic grin associated with many flying bricks. "Why, you…"

The ice staff was aimed at him next. As a second beam was unleashed, he dashed to the side and a section of railing formed long, horizontal icicles. Santa charged, jumped and kicked the weapon out of Anthony Ice's hands, sending it sliding across the display floor.

Santa commenced his attack with a barrage of kicks and punches, sending Anthony reeling back, for his strengths as a hero with range made him vulnerable against close combat. Every strike that connected had that plastic quality to it.

Ice saw an opening. He grabbed Santa's next kick and spun him away, giving the action figure some needed room to breathe. His staff remained where it lay, but his opponent made sure to stand between him and it; however, Anthony has another trick up his sleeve.

He clenched his fists and tensed his entire body. The air around him condensed and solidified. He chuckled in a macho fashion as his huge biceps, defined pecks, tight six-pack, perfect face and bulging legs all grew a shield of ice. Smashing his fists together produced the crunching smack of ice against ice.

Santa Claus was not so easily intimidated, especially by a foe he had never faced. He rushed in, dodging two swings before delivering a boot to Anthony's back, which only served to anger him. Anthony span around and drove his fist down, smashing one of the many display cases in two.

* * *

_…C-c-c-cold… S-s-so… c-c-cold…_

Asriel, consumed and trapped in a world of deathly cold darkness, collected what little thoughts he had left.

_…C-can't… move… Frozen…_

He had already lost the sensation in his limbs as the agonising cold seeped its way deeper, sapping away at every ebb of body heat. Attempting to budge so much as a finger got him nowhere. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

From out the darkness, images of his past returned. His bad past.

_…H-h-help… Help me… P-p-p-please…_

Leafy tendrils pulled Papyrus apart, one bone at a time; Doctor Alphys, pushed to the brink, took that last step into oblivion; the cacophony of his own laughter as bullets rained down on a defenceless King Asgore; the shocked look on a human child's face as they were tricked into touching a friendliness pellets.

_…M-Mom… D-D-Dad… Frisk… H-help…_

His mother, Queen Toriel, stood before him now. She was like an angel, his white palms in hers.

_…Please…_

Mom shushed him gently. _"Do not be afraid, my son."_ Her very voice stopped the last traces of warmth from leaving his soul. _"You can do it."_

A tiny spark appeared in his hands. The prince's fear rose along with the size of the flame.

_"Do not shy away; embrace it. This flame is just as much a part of you as the hands which hold it."_

With those words having sank it, little Asriel steeled his nerves. His arms stopped shaking, fingers twitched no more. Toriel let go, and Asriel harnessed the fire all by himself, allowing it to grow into the size of an apple. Though at first he feared the heat, it felt good as it stemmed through his fingers.

The flame was his fear. He had learned to control it.

* * *

Santa rolled over the staff, snatching it in the process, and drove it into Anthony's belly. He keeled over and gurgled as the tip cracked the ice, but regained his composure upon the fact it didn't reach his skin. Anthony Ice grabbed his staff and flung Santa across the room.

Santa tumbled to the floor and slid against one of the many displays. Through unfocused vision, he made out the approaching silhouette, not a blonde hair out of place on the superhero-turned-supervillain's head, nor was his heroic smirk lost beneath his protective guise. With magical staff back in his possession, he took aim.

"How 'bout I put some ice on tha—?" He glanced away before he could finish.

An orange glow grew on his chiselled features before striking it in full force. Fire the size of a football struck him in the cheek, knocking him to the ground and making short work of his armour.

The new challenger stood by the destroyed door, shaking and with arms outstretched, his fur and clothes soaking wet and slimed with slush. Behind him, his prison was nothing more than a melting stump no more than three inches in height. Asriel's next breaths came out through chattering teeth as he summoned a fireball in each hand and hurled one after the other.

Anthony tried to scramble away, but he wasn't fast enough. The first throw struck his forearm after he swung it up to shield his face. The second struck his belly while he was stunned by the first; the air left him as he rolled across the floor. Large chunks of his frozen shell were nothing more but puddles to be moped up.

He scrambled up – using his staff for leverage – to the sight of more primed fire. Such a powerful force from such a tiny creature.

Anthony Ice had lost the trademark smile on his sooted face. "Not cool, man," he said before launching his ice beam straight up. A section of ceiling froze and then he took flight into it – exiting in a shower of frosted timber.

Asriel held the fire for a moment longer, head turned upwards before he let his hands drop to his sides. A tremble intruded on weak knees, trying to snap them out from under him. As Santa Claus pulled himself up on the nearest case, only then did they hear the lack of silence. Beyond those walls were the snapping of wood, shattering of glass, breaking of brick, crackle of fire, snarl of a ferocious beast, zap of a laser, scratching of claws, howl aimed toward the fat moon curtained with the aurora borealis. A thousand concerns, and the first on that list stood shaking and dripping wet.

Santa reached Asriel just in time, catching him before he could collapse. Holding him was like pressing against a block of ice.

"So… cold…" Asriel mumbled, numb to the soul and half-conscious.

"Well, that's to be expected…" Concern plagued Santa's voice, despite his attempt to sound his usual happy, jolly self. Hundreds of children brought to his humble abode without so much as a scratch and now the first monster child nearly froze to death on his watch. The only person he had to blame was himself. Slowly, one tiny step at a time, Santa guided the child toward the Workshop. The destruction to his haven went on outside, yet he could not ignore the soul who needed his help right there. "A nice fire with a blanket and a hot water bottle should do it," he said, trying to rekindle his demeanour. "Some hot tea and a gingerbread man'll warm you right through."

He pushed open the doors leading to the Workshop and saw carnage.

Those mechanical dogs, once small and harmless, were now ten times bigger, whirling on wheels that left skid marks in the clean wood, chasing after the juicy elves, salivating through chomping teeth at their prey. The worker's dissonance of cries blotted out the destruction from the rest of the town. One of the hounds with a black and white pelt chased Carol around and around a workbench. Another pair gnashed at Oslo and Steve stuck on top of a laden bench further down the expanse. Albert, along with many of the frightened elves, tossed whatever toys lay around them to fend off their attackers; however, the imitation Ken doll that bounced off the pup's nose only served to heighten its anger.

One feral beast spotted the boss himself, along with an easy picking.

All of a sudden, a hidden door burst open and all the pandemonium ceased. Mrs Claus straddled into the room, moving so fast and so harsh for someone of her soft appearance. In her arms, she held bones, lots of them. Pure, innocent, juicy bones; it made every drooling mouth intensify.

"Snack time, boys," she hollered as she tossed the bones across the room.

Those dogs could not resist the call no matter how hard they tried. The lure was ingrained into their psyches. They spiralled up and snatched them up into hungry mouths; jaws chewed and chewed, savouring every little bit with glee. The elves watched from atop their spots, breaths held and hearts calming as each dogs, having reached content, shrank down to their original forms.

Peace returned, despite the litter on the floor, the skid marks and the two broken windows and the rumble of chaos outside. They stepped down now that the imminent danger had passed, Carol could finally stop and catch her breath; the Border Collie toy no longer wanting her bones.

Santa Claus, with Asriel under his arm, asked, "Is everyone alright? What happened?"

Sarah moved around the shop floor, checking on the others. "Someone swooped in on some sort of bike. She zapped some of these toys and they came to life. No one seems to be hurt, but…" Her spectacles flashed upon seeing the boy. "Oh, you poor thing." Before Asriel could protect, those same soft hands which pinched his cheeks were on his again. "What happened?"

Enough of Asriel's senses returned for him to form a response. "Got put on ice by Anthony Ice," he replied. "Literally."

Improvising, Sarah retreated back into the safe room and returned with a shawl big enough to drape over the child. She rubbed it all over his head, shaking out as much water as possible and after she was done, his fur had puffed out.

The harp strings of the legendary saint made him think about the people outside the walls of the Workshop: the other elves, his reindeer, and all the animals. They were out there and desperate for his help. Among the din, he caught Prophet's engine revs and cackling, racing high and low.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," Santa called out, his voice absolute. "Everyone take shelter in the backroom and wait until all this passes." As the crowd started to funnel out, Santa turned to the guest. "You stay with them too. I shall sort this mess out."

Before he could slink away, furry fingers snagged his belt.

"No way." It was abundantly clear that Asriel was getting stronger by the second. "I'm going with you," he insisted. "You couldn't handle that guy back there, you need all the help you can get."

The retreated men and woman paused to watch the confrontation between their master and the guest for the night.

"Forgive me, Asriel," he said in a calm, straight-forward way, "but you cannot."

"But I have to." As Asriel stood up straight, his face shaped with persistent resolve; his eyes went half-lidden, his smile appeared almost smug. "I signed the contract, remember?" he said. "It said I have to stay with you at all times." He prodded Santa's belly and wished afterward that he was as fat as the legends told; he nearly shattered his finger against those abs. "And that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

Santa looked like he was about to protest further when the entire front wall gaveway and in marched an eight foot tall robot. Red, emotionless eyes blasted a nearby stool into oblivion.

"Crush!" it endangered. "Kill!" it warned. "Eviscerate!" it shouted.

More fire erupted from the boy's paws. "You guys might wanna take cover now," Asriel said. "This'll be pretty brutal to watch."

The gathering flinched as the robot turned a workbench and its contents into black ash within the span of a second.

"Eradicate! Eliminate! Exterminate!"

"You heard the lad," Santa chimed as he took Asriel's side. "Get to safety. Asriel and I will handle this."

After bestowing one peck on her husband's cheek for good luck, Sarah Claus guided all the elves present into the safe room and shut the door behind them.

"Tell me honestly," Santa asked as the robot drew closer, continuing to chant one-word threats found in a thesaurus, "is this how you imagined how my workshop would be like?"

Asriel raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to say yes?" he asked.

"Nope."


	16. Jingle Bell Rock

This was it, at long last. Prophet had found his workshop, his home, the one place she could never find. Countless times, she had scoured every square metre of the Arctic searching for it, but never finding it. Its vast light, its warmth, its frost-bitten walls, taunting her on the cusp on the horizon, always there no matter how fast she chased it.

Now, the Workshop was below, it's snowed roofs beneath the roar of her motorbike. Those fabled short workers of Nicholas's, now within her sight, running like ants. The rubber of the throttle in one hand, the gun – a hunk of chiselled ice – in the other. She cracked pot-shots whenever she swooped down.

Watch how they flee from their own prides and joys. Ran from their dreidels and their race cars and their wooden trains.

At the most northern point of the village, the largest structure stood. The roof was the pointiest, its girth the widest, its walls the richest, and its windows the warmest. That house was Santa's own humble abode, no question. Prophet could have headed straight there; by now, she could have swiped the lists and taken off and nobody would have been the wiser. However, a message needed to be taught. Her own impression on such a perfect, wonderful place had to be instilled.

Prophet careened onto those streets – tyres meeting cobblestone – and moved so fast the array of colours became one singularity. Each and every elf jumped out of the way to avoid her.

She felt unstoppable, or so it seemed.

After screeching around the next corner in a spray of sludge, she hit upon a wall. Not just any wall, but a barricade. Suited in black bulletproof suits, helmets with visors, and wielding riot shields, batons and stun guns, the North Pole Defence Force had mobilised and had saw to it that several of her creations lay around their boots, back to their harmless forms.

Prophet may never have met an elf until that night, but she was aware of their prowess. Despite being half the size of a human, they were twice the strength. To attempt to surpass them might just bring her plans to an unfortunate end.

She veered left through the doors to the cupcake factory, remembering to duck behind the visor as she did so. Those around the conveyors of baked goods scattered upon her dramatic entrance. The bike darted around them into the opening.

Five belts churned cupcakes across the floor, whereupon they were separated into different belts where they are topped with an assortment of icing and sprinkles, chocolate flakes and cherries, cream and sweets.

The NPDF gave chase, keeping the door block in an attempt to box her in. Prophet could feel a net tightening around her.

With gun in hand, she took aim…

* * *

Santa rolled, dodging a couple of wild, unfocused shots which made smouldering craters in the floorboards. The toy robot ambled on stiff, unbending legs. His entire upper body span on its axis in a feeble attempt to get at the monster, Asriel, latched to the back of his neck. Santa wasn't exactly sure how he managed to get there in all the confusion.

It turned right, Asriel hang on. It turned the other way, still the boy held. Arm held on while legs swung out, each turn accompanied by a shrill scream.

Unable to find the boy, unable to catch him with his right-angle arms, the killer robot span faster and faster.

Asriel held on tight; his frame became a haze; his scream wavered. A few seconds and a hundred rotations later, the robot slowed to a stop, dizzy himself. He stumbled forward with Asriel, now a shade of green, still clung to his back.

Santa Claus, spotting his opportunity, pushed a skateboard under his foot. The machine slipped and tumbled onto his front; despite his size, he landed with a limp, plastic click. Asriel rolled and collapsed off the robot as it, being defeated, shrank back into his original form.

"Are you alright, my boy," Santa asked as he swiftly neared and clutched the lad by the shoulders and helped him up.

Asriel Dreemurr swayed like a drunk. His eyeballs rolled in circles; one could easily envision the stars forming a halo around his head. Asriel clamped his cranium between his hands and a few hard blinks forced his pupils straight. "I'm good, honest," he insisted.

"Then there's no time to waste." Santa pointed toward the broken entrance. "Let's go save the village."

He charged toward it with the boy at his side, ready as ever to face the monstrosities Prophet had created. As the saint reached the hole, he heard a resounding thud and turned to see Asriel flat against the unbroken wall to his right.

"Missed it," Santa stated the obvious.

Asriel rubbed the flatness out of his snout and felt his way toward cool air. The least North Pole walls could do was be a little softer, he thought.

* * *

Asgore pulled the wheel to the left, throwing everyone to the opposite side. Gunfire streamed past in tendrils of hot orange, failing to hit their mark except for a few rounds which plinked off the bonnet, leaving dents.

"I hope those hammer out," Asgore had to say, trying to bring his light-hearted spirit into the equation. "I'm pretty sure our insurance premium doesn't cover ballistics damage."

"Asgore, stop talking and do something!" Toriel cried, her face flat against the side window.

The king glanced in the mirrors. The fighter jets remained hot in his tail, primed to make him land by any means necessary. He twisted the car in the other direction, determined not to get reduced to shrapnel on Christmas Eve.

"Jeez Louise," Undyne yelled from the backseat. "Talk to them already!"

"I can't," Asgore replied in more of a whimper than a shout. "The radio only goes one way." Suddenly, his dashboard buzzed with a red flash and burned a hole into his retina. "What is that?"

Alphys pushed Frisk away just enough to answer. "That means they're targeting us!"

The fighters back off to a range of three hundred feet. The flying SUV remained within range and locked in their sights.

"Targeting us?" Undyne blurted. "You mean, like…?"

From the jets' underbellies, two missiles rolled out and, with the press of buttons, they were to the chorus of "Fox two." The pair of rockets made straight for the car, leaving a blazing trail of smoke, fire and death in their wake.

With eyes wide and pores screaming, as everyone buckled up was except for Sans, Alphys pointed at the buttons.

"The hazard lights," she screamed. "Press the hazard lights!"

From the rear-view to the sides to the flashing warning light, Gorey had no idea what to do or think as the rockets closed the distance. "H-how's that going t—"

"For goodness sake, Asgore!"

Toriel reached over and literally punched down the hazard lights, crushing it under thumb. The back window burst with two columns of orange that launched from out the rear lights. Dozens of flares filled the inky sky, throwing the missiles off-course. Their trajectory's wavered – one veered down and the other to the side – and exploded, sending two shockwaves through the car and its passengers.

White knuckles gripped the wheel, keeping her steady. The way ahead lay shrouded in black, yet the pursuers were still grey blotches in the mirrors.

Toriel turned all the way around in her seat. "Were those flares?" She gazed out as the clouds of smoke vanished in the dying lights, darkness gobbling it up, and found Alphys wedged between her child and the door. Her tone was belligerent as she queried, "You installed our car with flares?"

Frisk asked if they could switch places with Undyne out of fear that such copious amounts of sweat might cause them to fuse permanently.

"Not right now, honey," their father said.

Alphys, avoiding Tori's gaze, peered out the glass and into the ghostly pupils of her own apparition. "The… the upgrade demanded it," she answered in a meek voice.

Now was Asgore's turn to question: "Getting this car into the air demanded flares in the hazard lights?"

Undyne joined in: "And where did you get those flares in the first pl…" Her words faltered. "What else did you get from double-u double-u double-u dot totally-not-the-black-market dot com?"

"Uh, guys…" Papyrus's voice sounded from the far back, besides the snoring from his older brother. How Sans was able to find sleep as a time like this was actually understandable. This was his bro at his finest.

"Um…" Alphys, so red, veered on the side of caution. "I d-didn't get anything else…"

"Did you fit torpedoes in the muffler?" Undyne demanded to know.

"Are there some of those lasers in the rear-view mirrors?" The king wondered as he shot back and forth between the two, snatching glimpses of military property from within the nightly black.

"Guys?" Papyrus said louder, a finger raised. Sans slumped over onto his shoulder, thick in his dream of playing chess against Jerry outside of a tall, misshapen house made out of cans of expired powdered milk.

Toriel asked, "Does popping the hood literally pop something?"

Papyrus shoved his brother against the corner and made his presence loud: "Bogeys on our six." Everyone in the front turned around just in time as more streams of hot lead pierced the sky, adding more dings to the paintwork. "Chances of survival improbable. Suggest immediate retreat."

Alphys shot forward as far as her seatbelt would allow. "Four wheel drive," she screeched. "Throw it in four wheel drive!"

Asgore went to argue, "How will th—?" And Toriel grabbed the stick and slammed it into place.

Nobody was prepared for the G-force.

The SUV burst forward in a massive leap of speed, throwing the passengers back in their seats and sinking them deep in the padding. The driver, holding on for dear life, barely had his fingers around the wheel.

The two chasing pilots watched as the tango went from nothing to hyper speed in the blink of an eye and disappeared into the beyond with a blink of rear lights. They pulled back on the sticks, dragging their jets to a halt.

"Sip-rep, report," the radios sounded. "We have lost visual on the target."

One of the pilots unclasped his mask. "So have we," he responded. "Target lost."

* * *

Run. Run. Gotta run faster. Got to get there before Prophet does.

Asriel's little legs burned just to keep up with the long strides of the Christmas saint, and was exceedingly fast for a man of his years.

"Follow me, lad." Santa guided the goat boy around the corner of the sweet shop. "I know a shortcut through the cupcake factory."

As they neared the cupcake factory – a large, round building with a pointy roof iced with snow and topped with a cherry red orb, the front door burst open and an elf in black, protective armour flew out and crashed upside-down into the adjacent wall. Good thing elves were tough creatures; he got right back up, straightened himself out and charged back into the fray… only to be flung out exactly like last time. Through the open maw, ravenous roaring chilled Asriel to the core.

"Sounds like more of her work," Santa said. "Stay close, lad."

They entered the factory and there, taking up a greedy portion of the floor, was a giant, mutated cupcake, slapping its sickly tentacles and blubbering wet, guttural noises. The very sight screeched then two to a standstill. The surrounding security forces were no match as it slapped them away.

Asriel flinched at those burning, brutish eyes. "That's one nasty piece of work."

Just then, the cupcake coughed and belched loudly, spreading drool and germs within the sterile environment and, most of all, the men and women in armour.

"Now that was just plain rude," Santa, with hands on hips, remarked.

For some out worldly reason of which he didn't understand yet, Asriel heard those words repeat in his head. The clue was in what Santa said, and it tickled the edge of his reasoning.

Santa Claus, thinking he had heard the lad mutter something, asked him, "Did you say something, laddie?"

Asriel remained dead ahead on the monster cupcake, locked in a daze. "Plain rude," he whispered. Santa caught it that time. He repeated it again and again: "Plain rude… Plain rude… Plain rude…" Asriel was drawn to the bumpy, bald head. "Plain… rude…"

He snapped his fingers.

"That's it! He's not nasty, he's just… _plain_ … rude." He emphasised his point by pointing at the top of his head. "Plain. Get it?"

Santa Claus returned his attention to the living cupcake and caught on quick. "Perhaps," he suggested, "we can sweeten him up a little…"

Around the factory was what the destruction had left in its wake: ruptured belts and gutted machines and large nozzles still frothing white and yellow and pink and blue and brown icing.

"Don't you fret," Santa said as he tugged the boy's shoulder, "I've got a plan for this."


	17. Making a List, Checking it Twice

Santa asked, "Are you ready?"

Asriel had his green eyes fixed downward at the icing nozzle clutched in his arms and at the ladder of six sturdy souls maintaining perfect balance beneath his feet. Santa spouted four random numbers and those elves sprang into action. Rather impressive how he felt no sway whatsoever, despite being closer to the ceiling than to the floor, like he was on the floor to begin with.

"These guys seem awfully good at this," Asriel mentioned while still looking down, feeling no worry whatsoever.

"Of course they are," Santa replied from atop his own ladder of six, also with a nozzle in hand. The faces of those below him showed not a single twitch. "Like I said, they've practiced well for this scenario."

Asriel gave him a perplexed stare. He turned that same stare to the cupcake fiend before bringing it back to him.

"You've prepared for the event of a giant, rude cupcake stomping around the Workshop?"

With a smile, Santa swayed his head to the side. "I've made plans for all kinds of situations."

That was no exaggeration by any stretch of the imagination.

Alien invasion? He had a plan for that.

Zombie apocalypse? He had a plan for that.

Ice caps melt? He had a plan for that.

Cybernetic dolphins seize the lights department and demand all the fish in the world before three-fourteen in the afternoon? Approach from above. Disable motor functions. Threat neutralised.

The slapping and grunting of the mutant cupcake drew them back to the matter at hand. With a fling of a steel support, there went another window, and down went another brave squad of men and women like pins in a bowling alley. It snatched one of the poor guys up in its appendage and hovered him over its slobbering mouth. Before the cupcake dropped the elf, it wondered how he would taste. Hard on the outside and soft in the middle, it hoped.

It was now or never for the odd pair. Asriel lifted the nozzle as high as he could, bending his knees and arching his back to take its weight. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

Santa showed little fatigue in those packed arms as he took aim. "And… stage one, go!"

In unison, Santa and Asriel braced themselves as another team from below span the valves and sent a gushing force up the tubes and out the end in two sprays of vanilla and chocolate respectively. Two rainbows of icing splashed upon the cupcake's top, causing it to jolt and drop the helpless elf on the floor seconds before it could eat him. The elf took the moment the cupcake was distracted to scuttle to safety.

After a sizable mountain had been stacked, Santa shouted, "Stage two, your time to shine, lads!"

From out of nowhere, more of his workers swung in from above like trapeze artists, appeared from out the edges of Asriel's line of sight. Armed with hammers and chisels, they landed upon the vanilla and chocolate hill and went to work. Chunks ran down the cupcakes angry face to the same speed and tenacity of jackhammers, forming a sprinkle of frosting on the belt-ridden floor.

"Stage three, wrap it up!"

The chisellers glided away and in swung a few more, these ones holding plump bags. They reached in and pulled out sprinkles by the handfuls in which they dropped on the decorated head. After one from the group planted an oversized cherry on the peak, they slinked away as fast as they had converged.

The monstrous cupcake paused, caught in a moment of clarity. Its glare softened, mouth straightened, tendrils reached up and touched upon its new head of hair. A fine topping it was.

Its mighty maw flipped into a baby's smile, it even closed its eyes, flapped its arms and sputtered a giggle in the same fashion as one. Using no words, it screamed "look at me, I'm so delicious and tasty!"

Saint Nick wondered, hoped even, that this would be enough to cool the mutant's temper. Thankfully, it was. With a content sigh, those tentacles wilted, eyes closed, and lips sealed as it shrank back into the size of normal cupcake, leaving a clean halo where it stood. Once a massive monstrosity, now a tasty treat topped with vanilla, chocolate and sprinkles.

"Okay, fellas," the master announced, "that's a wrap."

With the threat neutralised, Asriel and Santa were lowered back to the ground, three feet at a time. The boy, as he returned to the Earth, was grinning from ear to ear, proud to have done his duty. He was helping. He, the terror from the Underground, was helping to mend Santa's Workshop and set right what was wrong on the same night that he was told that he was a good boy. With every action he aided Santa, the quieter Flowey the flower's doubts sounded in his ears.

As a squad of troopers surrounded the regular cake, treating it like it were a bomb, Santa directed Asriel to the backdoor.

"Now," he said, "about that shortcut."

Asriel nodded with such confidence that it lifted the saint's spirit. For the first in a long time, he was sure of himself and of his capabilities. "I'm right behind you," he exclaimed, wishing to waste no more time.

While they rushed out and away into the night, one of the members of the NPDF gave the treat a prod with a baton. It nudged by a centimetre, but didn't return to life.

Another member had a sinister look beneath the shine of his visor. "Dare you to eat it," he said.

"No way, dude," the other retorted. "You eat it."

* * *

_Wham! Punch! Smack! Chop to the back of the neck!_

It was true: elves were as tough as the legends claimed, but no tough enough for her. With one more decisive blow, the last of a squad went down for the count.

Around the vicinity, ten members of the North Pole Defence Force covered the cobble with their opaque frames. Their shields lay with them. Their batons as well. Prophet reached behind her back and plucked out two bolts from her cloak. Taser bolts. Good thing she had fine-tuned the fabric to absorb shock.

Just like the two goons from the mall, these guys only served one purpose: to waste her time.

Prophet expelled a mouthful of air and brushed herself down as Nicholas's very own abode blocked the expanse of space before her. Not quite the humble, modest cottage she expected or what the minds of the world thought of when thinking of Santa's house (it was closer to a mansion than a house) but still, this was the belly of the beast. More than the belly, this was the heart, the brain, the very soul of the North Pole, of Christmas itself.

Santa's mansion stood the widest and the tallest with three levels. Even on the outside it was inviting, each window glowing with magic and wonder. Walls of white brick, surrounded by a white-picket fence, roofed with snow that appeared to remain all year round.

Nicholas was the judge of Christmas. His home was where every idea either made the cut or faced the axe. Nothing in this totalitarian regime ever went ahead without jolly Saint Nick's approval.

Ahead, the house lay dormant, but behind her, the chaos she unleashed had died down into a few separate incidents.

Feeling the slightest tingle of apprehension, she barged down the main path and drove her boot into the door, kicking it open to the snap of wood.

She stepped past the threshold and felt the contained warmth grip her in an instant. The interior design granted much jealousy; large and spacious with a rustic design that screamed Santa Claus. The main foyer with immaculate carpet, a large staircase with the balustrades of the first and second floors visible. A long, decorative chandelier, large enough to reach the first floor, twinkled from the top of the shaft.

Such a big place. Where would the lists be kept?

Leaving the entrance open behind her, Prophet went for the nearest door to her right and found a living room, containing a large couch for the man himself and a rocking chair for the missus. The air was sickly with apple and cinnamon, aggravated by the fire left to burn in the mantle. Alone inside that container of stone, the flame was as if it were a resident in the home and not just a visitor. It offered light and heat, yet respected its place where it could do no harm. Prophet had a feeling that even if a few of its cinders licked the furniture, would die out without so much as a hiss of smoke.

Fast searching throughout the first floor revealed a kitchen, a bathroom, Santa's private gymnasium with weights on max, and a swimming pool in the conservatory. A trail of soggy footprints stuck out greatly on the clean carpet.

Nicholas would be there soon, she could feel his presence growing, creeping up her spine. In turn, he was bound to bring the whole of the North Pole down on her. Finding the lists at that stage would prove quite problematic. The stairs were scaled three steps at a time. Under her mask, cold sweat broke down her forehead.

The doors were opened, now treating them the same way a child treated doors on an advent calendar. What lay behind day five? Could it be a present-shaped chocolate, or a snowman-shaped one? A reindeer? A snowflake? Christmas pudding?

Another bathroom, the décor heavily inspired by the 1930s, yet intertwined with a modern trimming. A bedroom with a double bed, so comfortable, just looking at it was enough to make one's eyelids heavy.

The next door to swing open was like striking gold. A desk lay straight ahead, wedged between walls suffocating under frames. Prophet allowed herself to be guided closer. She made passing glances at those surrounding frames of gold and silver; most of them were newspaper clippings from the ages, every one in a different language and ranging in colours from black and white to black and yellow; some were photographs, single seconds of captured time ever since the birth of photography; crayon drawings of red, yellow, blue, green and purple from the bleak days of World War One.

Prophet rounded the desk and what a desk it was. The wood, to her surprise, wasn't mahogany, but its sheen and texture was nothing short of impressive. Its size and spectacle looked custom made for Santa himself. After kicking the chair against the corner before rummaging through the drawers. Actually, she did not need to do any rummaging; this desk had one large drawer position at the top.

Beneath her mask, beneath her cloak, her heart raced, her fingers tingled as she curled them around the handles and gave it a sharp pull.

"Found them…"

Two tomes. Two thick tomes, both thick due to their number of pages and their covers. The tome on the left had a dark brown face that was almost black. The tome on the right had a light brown cover that was easy to look at. Those giddy fingers of hers seized the right one, pulled it out the drawer and onto the desk's top. Opening it up revealed names starting from A and ending with Z. Billions of names along with addresses and Christmas wishes.

The legendary lists lay before her; the naughty and nice lists. Every single person on the face of the planet, condensed into two leather-bound books. Seven billion people and yet the books did not reach the ceiling and beyond – they were of reasonable size and weight. It wasn't until Prophet flicked through the pages did she discover its true depth. One page quadrupled into one hundred, and one hundred become one hundred thousand. Putting it to the test, she thought of the first name to pop into her head – Smith – and flung it open. The name at the top of the random page she selected was… Smith, Aaden. Down both pages, nothing but Smiths. Repeating the process with several other surnames, including a couple obscure ones, produced the same result.

From outside the door, the thumping of steps coming up the stairs. Prophet listened and picked up the tiny patter of a second pair. She guessed it was another of his slaves, maybe that butler of his. It made no difference. The room she was in had no windows and a visible ventilation grate was only big enough for mice, if any could actually reach the North Pole without freezing to death in the Arctic tundra.

With both books under one arm, she went back to the door. Santa in his humble home was looking directly in her direction as she stepped out.

"I'm sorry, dear lass" he said, "but those books aren't meant for checking out."

Prophet almost didn't recognise him without his abundance of fat. And the elf she guessed that tagged along did not turn out to be an elf at all, but a small creature wearing clothes, standing on two legs and bearing a goat's face.

She had hoped to make her snarky comeback, having figured her chance had come upon hearing Santa barge up the stairs. But such a distraction threw her off. "What's that?" she asked, nudging her head toward the monster. "The next toy for you to wail on? Didn't think you'd stoop low enough to us livestock."

The monster reeled back, offended. "Wha—hey!" he shot back, still brimming with confidence. "My name is Asriel, and I'm no farm animal!"

Santa was as calming as ever, even as his home lay in tatters. "Relax, lad," he said. "Allow me to handle this." He approached Prophet. "You've got a lot of cleaning up to do."

"Trust me," Prophet snapped, "you had it coming, old man. You had it coming for a long time."

Without warning, she threw the books down and leapt right in. Santa's quick reflexes blocked the first swing and the next. Her fists came in fast and strong; quite impressive, the first formidable opponent in years. The saint refrained from throwing his own strike, instead using her outburst to learn her methods. Another lasting impression was made, she had traces of several different styles in her technique.

Asriel stood back, the fight's only spectator. Seeing the jolly Saint Nick engage in combat was such a bizarre, out-of-place sight, and yet his was enthralled by the display.

Prophet swung a back kick only for it to be caught and spun out. She rolled upright and dove straight into a waiting fist. Santa's knuckles, as solid as steel from several lifetimes of battling crooks, connected with her mask and shattered it.

On her hands and knees, fragments of white fell from her face.

"I remember that punch."

Santa Claud froze upon glimpsing her face in the bright light. She was beautiful, with bold blue eyes, luxurious red lips, and creaseless, fair skin. Her hood came down and her platinum blonde hair – so white that it appeared silver – came up, buzz-cut short around the sides and long up top, gelled into the style of a punk rocker. A corner of her eyebrow saw a small piercing along with a tribal tattoo.

As she rose and regained her bearings, Santa remained still. Wide-eyed, speechless, unbreathing. His fists unclenched and fell to his sides.

Asriel switched back and forth, watching the two watch each other. That was all they were doing, watching and not fighting. The removal of her Prophet's mask had changed something, pulled a rug out from under the saint.

"Santa, what's wrong?" Asriel asked as worry crept through his being. "You can still beat her."

Without pulling his gaze away from the woman, he murmured, "No… I can't…"

Asriel stammered. "W-why not?"

Santa swallowed with his dry mouth.

"Because she's my daughter."


	18. I'll be Home for Christmas

The whole of Nicholas's past returned in one massive crash. The life before he became a saint, before he was bestowed with the mantle of Santa Claus. Before all that, he was but a man.

But he was not just any man. He was much less.

Santa Claus had believed that the truth of his past had been erased forever, scattered to the wind, and now he had never been so wrong.

Completely still, stunned by any recognition, he had no idea what to say or think. His entire jolly charm had left him. "…It's you…" he whispered. "I can't believe it's you… I thought—"

"You thought what?" Prophet's brow was deeply furrowed. "That I was dead? Some skeleton rotting in the ground?" She shook her head in disappointment. "Don't act like you're surprised, Nicholas. You're not fooling anyone anymore."

Santa reached out to her. "I had no idea what happened to you. I tried to find you so long ago. I—"

"Stop lying to me!" Prophet exploded. Her unaltered voice cut sharper. "You know exactly what happened: you ran us out, that's what. You never cared about me or Mom all those years ago. Why should I believe you care now?"

In the middle of this, Asriel watched in silence and awe. What was once one thing had now become something else entirely.

"Sanitta, please," Saint Nick said, taking one step forward. "I… I know what kind of person I was back then, and I understand if you're still upset. I know things were bad, but…"

"Oh, you think you know, huh?" Prophet's, Sanitta's, hands clenched into fists, and a deep frown fell upon her face. "You have no clue, Nicholas, what I've had to live through just to be standing here right now." With closed eyes, the silent fury sieved out of her like an aura. "I've plotted this for over a thousand years, the day where I could finally face the monster that cursed my life. I've watched countless plans burn to the ground one after another. I've prepared so many speeches, and I've committed all to memory, every line and every word; if I were to recite them all right now, we'd be here 'til next Christmas."

The darkened carpet underfoot met Santa's gaze. "Christmas Spirit…" He looked at his hands, seeing the same ones which brought joy to the world… and much pain. "I knew it kept me alive. But I—"

"But what? You thought it wouldn't affect me – your flesh and blood, your one and only true heir?" She threw her hands down as the rage continued to build. "Do you think it was a gift, this eternal life? You would, considering you hid away from it." She pointed harshly to the world beyond those walls. "I was trapped out there in the real world. Do you have any idea what it's like to remain timeless while the world around you aged? To watch people you've grown to care about wither and die, over and over? To be chased by witch hunters? To be hunted by slavers? To be dragged into every war ever waged?" Her tone grew solemn. "To watch your own mother succumb to plague?"

Santa Claus drew in a quiet gasp.

"She's…?"

"She's dead, Nicholas. The Black Death got her."

"Oh…" Santa clutched his head. "Goodness…"

"Don't give me crocodile tears," the woman formerly known as Prophet retorted. "It's not like you cared, with your new wife and everything."

"I tried to find you."

"We didn't want to be found by the likes of you. Your cruelty… it didn't stop after we got away. It followed us. No matter where I ran, I could never escape, not after I heard the first story of a kind-hearted man, a jolly, friendly saint who brought joy to the world… and there you were, being hailed a hero. I've heard every single story centred around you; every fable and fairy tale, every painting and picture, every movie and book, decoration and trinket, all telling the same lie over and over. Billions of people – the entire world – all looking up to you, this caring, selfless giver of gifts, and there I was, alone in the middle of it all. The only person – the only one! – who knew the real you."

Sanitta made wild gestures with her arms. "The monster who always came home late stinking of wine and with blood on his knuckles. Who smacked his lips at every woman who crossed his path. Who swindled everyone out of their every coin, then squandered it while his wife and child starved." Santa had his head down and eyes shut. A deep, upsetting force wanted to drag him down. "Who spread lies to everyone, just to get his own way. Who raised his own fists against his own lover. And when that wasn't enough, his own daughter!"

Asriel shot out, "You're lying! Santa wouldn't… he could never do something like that. He… he couldn't of."

With a small sideways glance, Sanitta barely noticed Asriel's presence. "Don't take my word for it, kid." She raised an open palm toward her father. "Take his," she said, her anger having subsided at least for the moment.

Deep in those blue eyes of hers, there was only surety in her words, confidence in her stance. Asriel faced the saint of Christmas time, looking up to meet his look.

"That's not true, is it?" He grabbed the man by his shirt and tugged. "Tell me what she's saying isn't true."

Those desperate, green eyes of the boy were all Nicholas could focus on. He looked upon that face and, once more, saw his daughter from an age he thought forgotten.

Santa gave a pitiful nod.

"…It's true," he said.

The hold on his clothes relented, and he struggled to accept the look on the boy's face.

Asriel took a step back, breathing odd.

"A-all of it…?"

"Every word."

Asriel, his eyes wide, head trembling as it shook, felt a truth so horrifying fill his soul. With it, another reality that he could not bear to accept came crashing down.

He looked down and clamped his head between his hands. "Oh, no…" he let out in a whimper. His confidence having left, replaced with an empty shiver. "…Oh, no…"

Santa wiped away a forming tear. "I'm not that person anymore. You have no idea how hard I've tried to make the pain go away."

"But you can't," Sanitta hissed. "And you never will, especially since you built up this tradition on a lie. Everyone you hurt, even myself, had to live with the burden you gave them. And where was your punishment?" Her voice got louder and louder. "There was none. Instead, you got rewarded. You, a liar, a cheat, a womaniser, a drinker, a bad father, made a saint, gifted with eternal life, chosen to bring happiness to the world. Where's the justice in that? You didn't suffer one little bit."

"I have suffered – I'm still suffering," Nicholas replied. "You may think I got off easy, but I didn't. For every child I made smile, for every sound of laughter, I kept seeing your face haunting me with what life could've been like had I been a better person when it mattered. I've lived with that pain every day, and it will stay with me until the end."

Sanitta took slow steps forward.

Nicholas said, "I'm sorry."

Sanitta stopped. Her stance belligerent.

"Sorry? _Sorry?_ That doesn't make it any better, old man!"

Sanitta lunged forward and Santa put up no resistance as the first punch struck his cheek.

"Wh-what?" Asriel shot his head up. "No, no, stop it!"

The woman refused, punching the other cheek, then went into a wild volley, strike after strike into the face that haunted every waking moment and every dream of her life. Her own turned red. Angry snarls escaped between clenched teeth, so tight they were in danger of cracking. Never before had her heart beat so fast.

"What? What's wrong?" she yelled while adding another punch. "Don't wanna hit me anymore?" Punch. "Because I'm no longer a helpless little girl?" Punch. "Doesn't feel so good—" punch "—when it's happening to you, now does—?"

Small, white paws shoved her back. "STOP IT!" Asriel cried as he pushed; "I said stop it!" Sanitta fell back a few steps, almost tripping from the goat monster's surprising amount of strength. "Leave him alone!"

Sanitta – her face still red, heart racing – took a second to catch her breath, feeling the after-effect of releasing all that rage. Such a brave sight. A child trying to protect a man quadruple his size; the width of his outstretched arms barely matched Nicholas's waist.

"Typical," she remarked. "Even with the truth laid out before you, you still clamber to protect your favourite saint."

"Asriel, please," said Nicholas as he slowly reached down to grab the boy's tiny shoulders. His rosy cheeks had become a deep shade of blue. "This doesn't concern you."

Before he could be pushed aside, the boy squirmed his way out. "No, I'm not gonna stand back and watch you get hurt." With scowling eyes, she faced the woman. "If you want to get to him, you gotta go through me first."

Sanitta shook his head and expelled a sigh.

"Kid," she began, "I've been around the world more times than you've made a mess at dinnertime. I've fought in every war since the fall of the Roman Empire. I've mastered every single form of combat there is; every style, every art, every weapon, every tactic, scheme and strategy ever conceived by mankind." Her arms went akimbo. "What've you got, hmm? A yellow belt from karate classes at your local community hall?"

"Hey, that's not true," Asriel shot back. A bead of sweat betrayed his stern exterior. "For your information, I've got an orange belt."

Sanitta, fed up of these childish games, advanced with stomping steps on the carpet. She was two steps away when Asriel opened his hands and said:

"I also got these." Two swords appeared into his waiting hands. Had Frisk've been there, they would have recognised them. If anything, they got her to stop in her tracks. "I said—" he sieved through his teeth, "—leave him alone."

His skinny arms were gripped by powerful hands.

"No swords," Santa insisted, trying to pull him aside. "No swords. Don't hurt her."

However, there was little point as the shine of two sharp blades did little to threaten Sanitta.

"Don't worry," she said, one foot away now, "he won't." She stood within range of those weapons. Arms down, open to any attack. "Will you, now?"

Asriel's fingers tightened on the hilts. Sanitta basked in complete confidence that he wouldn't have the gall to lash out at an unarmed target – not to mention the daughter to Santa Claus himself. Unfortunately, she was right. His fingers relaxed and his dual swords fizzled into sparks upon hitting the floor.

Lightning fast, Sanitta grabbed Asriel by the collar and dragged him aside before continuing on her father, punching an old man who refused to fight back.

She got a few more strike in before Asriel charged at her. "Leave! Him! Alone!" He shoved her away then came at her with clenched fists. Without the use of his blades or his fire magic, it was all he could think to do given the circumstances.

Sanitta stepped back, effortlessly dodging the first punch.

"If you only knew, Asriel…" she remarked as she avoided the next swing of fuzzy knuckles, no need to raise her arms at all.

Asriel jumped in with a kick, and Sanitta caught his ankle and lifted him upside-down off the ground. All the pressure rushed to the boys head as his arms and ears dangled downward. He could do nothing except kick out with his free foot, missing her by a wide margin. Curse his regular monster soul. The once mighty God of Hyperdeath, who held reality by its throat, reduced to a flailing child.

Santa tried to intervene, but Sanitta pushed him back against the railing.

"If you only knew what a soulless piece of work good ol' Saint Nick is," she said to the boy, "then you'd understand."

She threw him aside, but no sooner did he land did a screech scratch against her ears and Asriel was diving at her. He lunged with his fists, as if possessed, and successfully whammed her up the side of the head. After taking a couple more hits, she grabbed hold of his fists which continued to punch away.

Asriel's eyes were full of fire – Sanitta saw that spark herself. She observed them, analysed them, and drew her own conclusion.

"You're… different, aren't you?" she asked. The tension in her arms eased, allowing the boy draw closer so she could get a better look at those eyes.

"Never faced a monster before?" Asriel's nails dug into his soft palms. He pushed so hard that his entire upper body went rigid.

"No, it's not that," she whispered. By now, Asriel had tired himself out. Sanitta snatched his wrists and held them above his head. He wriggled and squirmed to no escape, resorting to delivering weak kicks at her shins. "There's something about you that I can't quite place. The way you fight… The way you defend a man you hardly know… It's almost like you're trying to make up for something."

In that instant, Asriel Dreemurr stopped struggling and gave the woman a shocked stare.

She continued, "Something happened in your life once. You've been no saint yourself, I can tell. A bad thing happened in your past – the type that tears you up inside, makes you question everything you once believed– and you're desperate to make it go away."

Asriel stuttered, "That's not… That's not true."

"You're not kidding anyone, kid. What'd you do? Hurt a friend? Stole from you mother? Lied to a brother or sister?"

Asriel said nothing, but his eyelids closed and his fighting subsided as if he were about to break down. Behind the darkness, there was no running away from the life that continued to hound him.

_Hurt a friend?_

He heard not his voice, saw not his face, but the face of a flower.

_Stole from your mother?_

And he was smiling.

_Lied to a brother or sister?_

And he was laughing.

Sanitta picked him up and dropped him to the side.

"Fine, if you won't tell me," she said while taking short steps over to the two books on the floor, "maybe I'll look you up in the lists instead."

The pair felt a sudden urge to stop her, but the air had grown deathly cold; neither Asriel nor Santa realised it until they could see their own breaths. A greyness crept within every corner, between the windows and up the wallpaper, peeling it away. Sanitta showed not a twitch as an icy window gave away to the muscular frame of Anthony Ice – back to kick some ice.

Santa darted over and pulled Asriel away as an ice beam froze the ground where he stood, preventing him from becoming a monster popsicle for a second time that night.

"Hey, Ant," Sanitta said as she casually reached down and grabbed both lists. The superhero action figure obeyed the voice of the person who gave him life. "I don't like this house; it stinks of pie. Tear it down!"

Anthony Ice, with a twirl of his staff, heeded her command.

"Everybody freeze!" he shouted before starting with the ceiling above the heads of the old man and young monster.

The featureless ceiling froze before forming cracks. They spread quickly, unable to bear the weight from above. Santa and Asriel bolted before a king-sized guest bed came crashing down. They fled across the first floor landing, running from the rain of ice and debris, crashing down so hard that it drowned out all thoughts. Asriel tossed a couple handfuls of fire over his shoulder; one missed completely, but the other veered toward the intended target; however, the superhero had learned his lesson well: when a four-foot tall goat boy hurled fire in your direction, get out of the way.

Anthony Ice fired without aiming, striking whatever stood in his beam's path whether it was floor, wall, ceiling, or furniture.

Santa led the boy into a rumpus room – a spacious room decked out with tables and chairs, a pool table, dart board, and mini bar. No matter where they ran, the marching cold snapped up what warmth that place held, draining it of life and colour. He looked up as a section gave way.

"Look out!"

He pulled Asriel back before he could run in the path of the bathtub coming down. Upon smashing against the brittle floor, the boards broke and the two slid to the bottom floor, landing within his private gymnasium. The tub landed hard on the loaded bench press.

In there, the two watched as the structure around them became brittle and cold. The walls cracked and more furnishings from above dropped around them, cutting off their escape. From the hole above, Sanitta stood with both lists under her arm and Anthony Ice, smiling his plastic smile, at her side.

The destruction ceased for a small window to allow her to speak.

"You'll survive this, I know you will. I want you to," she said. "That old body of yours won't survive long without the power of Christmas Spirit, but mine remains as young and strong as ever. I will steal Christmas from the world, and as the joy leaves everyone's hearts, you will die watching all of your work crumble before your eyes." She got down on one knee, wishing for her father to hear her perfectly clear. "Your name will be scorned, reviled, hated and forgotten. I will bury you under the lie you created, and I will build a better Christmas – around the truth – atop your bones."

Santa reached to her, wishing he could stretch that far. "Sanitta," he cried, "don't go! Don't leave me again!"

Sanitta grinned even as the destruction resumed. "No doubt you'll want to stop me," she said. "Don't worry, I won't be far…" She rose and wrapped her other arm around Anthony's beefy bice. "In fact, I'll be right under your noses."

One cue, Anthony Ice blasted a clear hole through the ceiling which he used to fly himself and his master out. In true superhero fashion, he held his staff up and had one leg bent and his cape fluttered. Shattering plaster, brick and wood gave way to cold, open air. Sanitta clung to him, watching as the bad father and the peculiar boy became lost in the thick of rubble, ice and dust.

She barely caught the last sounds of Nicholas's voice: "Sanitta! Sanitta!"

High above in the night air and under the far moon, the prophet watched with no small satisfaction as the mansion roof caved, as fissures travelled along every inch of brick. Every eruption of glass, definite snap of cable, churn of steel bending under immense weight would be sounds she would cherish until her final days a long, long, long, long time from now.

After one last death rattle, the entire building collapsed in on itself in an explosion of dust. When it settled, a massive wreck remained. The elves stood by as the home of their boss went down with him in it.

Sanitta had a giddy spirit as she summoned her bike; everything remained according to plan. In no time at all, it was by her side and Anthony Ice courteously placed her in the driver's seat.

"Thanks, big boy," she said, smiling warmly as she placed the two tomes in the back compartment and grabbed the handlebars. A pump of the accelerator rewarded her with a satisfying _vroom vroom._ "Let's bounce."

Ice nodded. "Anthony Ice away!" He went to fly off, but stopped and glanced back for a brief moment. "Uh, ice, cold… Whatever."

Sanitta took one last look back at the village below, at the channels of streets, at the gathering, at the spot where the proud house once stood, the splay of brick and shattered glass half as tall as the mansion used to be.

She would have liked for Nicholas to be grounded to ashes under all that, however, such an end would not be fitting enough. Not fitting at all. That was where the lists came in.

His end was nigh, and she would give him a tomb the Egyptians would be envious of.

She took off into the night.


End file.
